


An Irishman's Tea Party

by An_Author



Series: A Soul to the Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 77,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Author/pseuds/An_Author
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon reading an article about a young woman who figured out a murder in less than a week, Sherlock decides in a fit of boredom that all of the facts don't necessarily add up and he wants to amuse himself.  Unfortunately, the young lady is less than amused at the detective's antics and strives to prove that she can be just as witty in every other sense of the word.</p><p>She is less than afraid to go toe to toe with the brilliant detective and prove that she's not the murderer all the while fighting back the painful loss of her brother.  Little does she realize how instrumental she will become in giving him the push to defeat the Napoleon of Crime.</p><p>(Congruent with Reichenbach Fall)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Unthinkable Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, in no way shape or form, own any rights to BBC's Sherlock. I am just channeling some stories into reality.

_Boston_

_11:26 AM_

_Cold.  Sharp and numbing. Blinding.  Freezing.  Glacially encompassing.  Fingertips: pale.  Involuntarily shivering violently.  Movement is labored._  
  
“For god’s sake, get the hell out of that water.  Now.  What the hell are you doing?  Get her out of the water, now!” yells Deputy Chief O’Rourke.

The young woman in the tank violently shakes her head left and right, her body trembling uncontrollably.  “I need – t-t-t-t-to – know.  Feels.  How – experiment,” she stammers.  Her eyes move over to the medics waiting on the outskirts of the tank, “Safe – ‘nuff.”

D.C. O’Rourke looks to the paramedics that overlook the pool and bellows, “What the hell are you doing?  I said get in the water!  Fish her out!”

One of the medics looks over and shrugs, “Sorry, she called in a favor with our Captain.  He’s the only one that can tell us to pull her outta that water early.”  O’Rourke throws his hands up in the air and grunts in frustration.  
“Besides,” chimes in another medic, “she’s got a thermometer on.  We’re monitoring her vitals.”

“Well that’s just absolutely outstanding, isn’t it?!” the Chief yells, “You’ve got one of the brightest people in the city playing around in a god damned ice tank and I should feel warm and cozy because you’re monitoring her?!  GET HER OUT OF THAT GOD-DAMNED WATER, NOW!  Or so help me God, I will go in myself.”

The woman smirks in as best a fashion as possible, considering she’s leaving the moderate stage of hypothermia and is trading it in for the more severe.  She starts muttering to herself and looks up at the over-hanging microphone that has been documenting her experience.  The camera to her front is still glowing with dedication as it records every movement in the water.  “If – move…move…I – I…”

Paramedic Cooper hears the beep of his tablet and picks it up off the ground.  “You’re down to 28 degrees Celsius, ma’am.”  The woman nods slowly, trembling as her breathing becomes increasingly labored.  “I need you to open and close your hands for me.”  She kicks the water to pusher herself up as her hands leave the water and flex, albeit painfully and slowly.  “Now, what’s the sentence you have to tell me?”

The young woman closes her eyes in concentration.  Her lips, ears, and fingers are blue.  “Haydn…c-c-c-con….c-c-c-concerto…trumpet – c-c-c-cold.”

O’Rourke looks at the medics, “Celsius?  What the hell?  What is that in Fahrenheit?!  What’s that supposed to mean? How long has she been in the water?”  He notices her violent shaking and erratic breathing.  “How long?!”

Cooper looks to his watch and then looks over his tablet with her vitals.  He looks up with mild concern across his face, “She’s been in the water for eight minutes.  She’s coming out soon.  Hey, flex your hands for me!” he yells to the water.

The brunette looks over and snarls, “I AM!”

The paramedic looks over to her hands and sees that they are still open, “WHAT’S THE SENTENCE?” he hollers over to her.  She mutters something incoherently and shudders.  “Diver!  In the water!” Cooper screams.  The diver jumps in and immediately swims over to her.  DC O’Rourke is bellowing at the top of his lungs for them to get his prized possession out of the subzero waters.  She was protesting with unintelligible words as the diver reached out to her and began to drag her to the edge.  Cooper reached into an insulated bag and withdrew a heated IV kit to give to this strange human being that willingly put herself through hypothermia just so that she could feel the stages of it and know how to relate it to people recovering from the condition.  The medics work on rapid rewarming.

O’Rourke looks over at his secret weapon, in nothing but a bathing suit and donning blue, pale skin, shaking uncontrollably - almost looking as if she’s crashing right there in front of him.  The IV is hooked up to her and she’s dried off, put on a stretcher, and moved to a warmer room.  A mask is put on her with warm, humidified air and she’s put onto a gurney with a crash cart nearby.  He prays that her heart won't fail.

She can’t hear the voices of O’Rourke or the paramedics.  She keeps muttering to herself into a microphone about what she’s feeling and isn’t one hundred percent sure if she’s making any sense.  _It’s getting dark.  She’s cold.  And numb.  Sharp and numbing.  And Dark.  Very dark.  And it’s starting to get warm_.  She would be fine.  This is the time when she is going to sleep and leave those nearly capable EMTs to take care of her and get O’Rourke away from her.  She did, after all, call in a favor.

_9:17 PM_

“Shannon.  Shannon.  God damn it, Shannon? Wake up!” roars a male voice from the dark of her dream-space.  There wasn’t anything there in this dream: no noises or sights.  It was nothing of importance, just a mild break in consciousness from two separate points in time… _Ah yes, the experiment._   _Hypothermia and the effect it has on someone like me – someone that can be removed from self.  O’Rourke.  That damn ass is waking me up._

“I know that you can hear me, your heart rate is going up.  Wake up, god damn it,” snarls the officer.

She heaves a heavy sigh, “You know, O’Rourke, I just experienced hypothermia, so if you –“

“HYPOTHERMIA!  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  Christ-all-mighty,” the Bostonian cries out, “Who in their right mind would willingly put themselves through that shit for fun?  Are you kidding me!”

“I’m fine, thank you for asking,” she rolls her eyes. “Yes, I’m sane enough to put myself through that.  Shut up, please.  You’re hurting my head.  There’s a migraine setting in.”

Bewildered, O’Rourke places his hands on his waist and makes a groan of exasperation as he moves to stare out her window.  The bustle of Boston night life was well under way.  “Shannon, look, I know you’re eccentric and you do some weird things sometimes, but you _cannot_ keep putting yourself into these situations.  I know that after what happened, you had this _awakening_ moment and were able to see things better than most of us.  God knows what would have happened had you been like this your entire life –“

She glared out of the corner of her eye, “I suppose that I’d be like a certain consultant from across the pond I’ve read about; and, you and I both know that your people skills are sub-par.  I most likely would have pushed you into the harbor.   Attached to a weight.”

He bows his head and shakes it slowly, “Well, thank God for small favors.”  He turns and wipes a hand across his face, “Look.  You’re my special little weapon.  And I’m a bit protective.  I found you first.  But you’ve got a reputation for pulling leads out of nowhere because of what you do and how you do it.”

“The answer’s no.”

“Sorry, Shannon, it’s not.  I wasn’t allowed to say ‘no’ simply because you don’t want to go play in anyone else’s backyard.”  He moves to the chair beside her, “People are watching – especially after you caught your brother’s murderer.  I’ve got three faxes, eight emails, and my phone has been ringing non-stop for the past few hours.  You seriously agitated someone and I can’t keep deflecting everything away from you.”

Shannon shrugs, “I’m just a musician with a wealth of trivia knowledge that’s taking life by the reigns and living as much as I can because my brother’s not here.  I’m not a detective, I had a vendetta, settled that score and now I’m coping.”

“You’re not coping, you’re self-destructing; and, quickly.”  He touches her arm, “Look, I need you to get healthy and get packed.  You need to get away for a while and self-medicate in such a manner that won’t be an issue.”  She scoffs.  “I’m serious, young lady,” the balding man scolded, “I will not let you do this.  I will lock you up for your own good.”

“If you’re finished,” she sneers.  The policeman nods and walks out of the room silently.  As she heas the door click behind him, she touches her lips while deep in thought.  She needs to log this away: her experience from today.  She grabs her headphones and searches through her mp3 player for a playlist.  “Red.  Lovely.”  She places the ear buds in position and listens to the set list as she grabs her tablet sitting on her bedside table to watch the video from earlier.  Colors and shapes dance across her vision as she watches the footage from earlier that day.  The over stimulation of her mind helps to ease the pain of her brother’s death with each passing note of music.  Drowning out the white noise around her, she focuses solely on her actions in that video, watching her body language down to the minutest detail.  Her eyes were the tell all on how she was feeling with each passing second in that video – that would have to change and get worked on.  Eyes may be the window to the soul, but she would not let anyone back in that could possibly damage what was left of her life again.  In the name of self-preservation, by God, she would not let it happen again.

 

* * *

  _London_

“Bored.”

“No.  Absolutely not.  I will not have you putting any more holes in this flat,” John chastised before walking to Sherlock with an outstretched palm.

“Ntk,” Sherlock clicked his tongue to express his annoyance, “John, really.”

“Sherlock, I was a soldier, now you can give it to me or I will take it from you,” he said stone faced.

Rolling his eyes, he twirled the pistol around and handed it to his flat mate.  “The safety is on.”

John examined the gun and took it apart while shooting Sherlock a disapproving look, “I can see that.  But I already paid Mrs. Hudson for the last time you took bullets to the wall.”  He took the weapon and put it in Sherlock’s room.  He heard a sharp thud coming from the living room and turned around immediately to cut through the kitchen.  His friend was throwing knives at the painted smiley face on the wall.

“SHERLOCK!”

“BORED, JOHN.  I’M BORED!”  He jumped up throwing his remaining knives all at once.  “There’s nothing going on!  No calls, no texts, nothing from Lestrade – NOTHING!” he growled as he manically paced around the room.

Another dirty look graced John’s face.  “Read.  Go outside.  Think of an experiment.  I don’t care.  Just do not be destructive to this flat!”

“UGH,” he snarled, throwing a temper tantrum as he sulked on the couch, “There’s nothing out there!  I’m not a child.”

“Really?  Fooled me.” John quipped with a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

“Don’t be smart, John,” Sherlock mocked as he gazed out the window, “It’s not funny.”

Dr. Watson picked up a paper off the desk and flicked it open abruptly.  “Sherlock, it is funny.  Sometimes between you and Mycroft, I feel like your nanny more than your flat mate.”

Sherlock mimed John’s last statement and scrunched his face towards John.  There.  He saw it.  On the floor was another paper and he leapt up to collect it.  The front page stated that there was an interview with a Boston Deputy Chief about a sister that solved her brother’s murder in a week – and she wasn’t the culprit.  Slightly intrigued, mostly due to boredom, he thumbed through the paper to find the exclusive.  Sherlock scanned through it rapidly.

_Brother was murdered execution style.  Sister came home from a job interview to find him in middle of living room.  Sister most likely (if not culprit) enters state of shock.  Is taken in for questioning and sent to physician for severe depression.  Sister ‘awakens’ from sedation and asks to be taken home.  Finds evidence that local and federal police miss.  Finds the killer and brings him to justice, DC O’Rourke was forced to take a shot to protect himself and his witness.  How interesting._

“Codswallop, he didn’t shoot the killer.  The sister knows who did it.”  John looked over, confused.  “Well, it’s obvious.  She was enraged.  But how did she solve it in less than a week, John?” he asked as he handed the paper over to John to skim.

Watson pouted, “Professional hit?  Mobsters, perhaps?  Maybe the sister knew and wanted to get even.  Or they were in cahoots together in a more suspicious sort of work?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly and looked over at him as he cocked his head to the side, “Of course not.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?” he asked, entirely puzzled; Sherlock shifted in his chair.

“You’re doing that face again and I told you that I would punch you the next time I saw it because I know, deep down, you’re mocking me.”

“No I’m not, can’t you see it?” he queried plainly as he pulled his mobile from his robe pocket.  He honestly wondered how John couldn’t see the connection; or, lack thereof.

John tossed the paper back to the floor and began to reread the column he had started previously.  “I’m ignoring you.”

“No you’re not,” he chided as he texted Lestrade.  The detective looked up from the screen, “Besides, I know you’re interested.  I can see it.”

_Lestrade:_   


_Interesting case in the paper._   
_No murders. You’re boring me._   
_Will be investigating the prime witness._   
_From Boston case.  The Telegraph._   
_Don’t interrupt._   
_-SH_

 

“No, Sherlock, I’m not.  I’m going to read this paper, then go do the shopping because God knows how old the milk is in the fridge –“

“…two and a half weeks,” he stated matter-of-factly.

John chose to ignore him, “And, I told you, I’m going out tonight.”

“Yes, I know.  It’s the shoes, you know.  Nevermind, there’s something interesting about that case from Boston.  Doesn’t it make you inquisitive?” he probed.

“Don’t,” John warned as he looked over to Sherlock who was now typing out another text on his phone.

 

_Blood:_

_Interesting case in Boston.  
-SH_

 

“Figured out an execution style hit in less than three days?  Found the murderer at day four and the murderer was killed by day five…”

 

_Brother Dear:_

_The sister did it.  
-MH_

John kept trying to argue, but he knew Sherlock was going to keep trying to have the last word, “I mean really, Sherlock.”

 

_Blood:_

_No, she didn’t._   
_It’s obvious._   
_-SH_

“…it’s all a bit over the top, don’t you think?  That a sister, even by your normal standards would suddenly just, ‘BAM’, know all the answers and know exactly what to do at exactly every moment and know all the possible outcomes to be able to apprehend the prime suspect in less than a week, completely bypassing all law and process…”

 

_Brother Dear:_

_Are you asking for her?_   
_I’m not here to supply a petting zoo._   
_-MH_

“Ntk,” Holmes chided.

 

“WHAT?” John growled in exasperation.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in disbelief, “Mycroft’s being cold.  How charming.”

“You know,” John sighed, “one day you’re going to drive me straight mad and I won’t come back from the asylum.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock stated defensively as he stared at his partner, “No one calls it an asylum anymore.”

 

_Blood:_

_There’s something missing._   
_Bored._   
_-SH_

 

John folded the paper up, stood up, and skulked into the kitchen to make himself some tea.  There really was no winning.  As the kettle boiled, John realized that even at this point, if Sherlock, by some divine providence was able to get the Boston girl here, it was still a seven hour flight.  At least.  “I’m still going out tonight.”

Sherlock’s phone sounded:

 

_Brother Dear:_

_I thought that’s what John was for._   
_Pick her up at Heathrow at 11:30 tomorrow._   
_-MH_

 

“Yes, yes, after you do the shopping and all that.  Oh, and tomorrow, you’re going to Heathrow to pick up the Boston sister at 11:30,” Sherlock informed his friend as he re-entered the room.

 

_Blood:_

_Fine.  John will pick her up.  
-SH_

 

John squinted, analyzing his friend, “Why don’t you just go pick her up?  You’re the one that’s bored.”

“Exactly.  I need to deduct in a controlled environment.  I don’t need to be too hasty.  BORED,” he sighed in triumph.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, “Hello, dears, I heard some thumping earlier while I was cooking and was wondering – SHERLOCK HOLMES!  JUST YOU LOOK AT MY WALL!”

The doctor looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head before turning around to face Mrs. Hudson, “I took the gun off of him.”  Sherlock stood up and stared out his window to the life outside of 221B Baker Street, deep in thought.  John glared over at him as a lack of response came to being.  “I’ll put some extra in the rent this month.  Would you like a cuppa?  Kettle just boiled.”

“Thank you, John,” she replied, “Nothing better for some frazzled nerves caused by that Sherlock Holmes.”  John glared again before returning to the kitchen to make Mrs. Hudson some tea and to write up a small grocery list.  “Make sure you have more tea on there, dear, I have a feeling we’ll need it.”

John smirked as he wrote down the item, “I certainly hope not.  He’s flying in a witness from a case in Boston.”

“Why on earth would he do that?” she inquired looking over at the tall, slim man in profile.

“Because he’s bored.”


	2. Rage Against the Dying of the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that I haven't described the OFC yet, really. There's a reason. You'll be making your own deductions at the same time Sherlock does. Bear with me!

After going through the final examination before being released to go home from the hospital, Shannon had packed her things from the room and headed to the nurses’ station to drop off a small box of cookies for the staff.  The nurse looked at her inquisitively as she took the cookies and set them on the desk.  “Oh, that’s just a little something for you guys because you brought me extra Jello.  I love Jello.  And I know you guys didn’t have to do it, but thanks for putting up with me yesterday.  I know I wasn’t much fun post ice cube.”

The nurse smiled slightly, “Well, baby girl, you just stay outta here for a while and bring some more cookies with you next time you feel like being dangerous and we’ll be asking you what flavor Jello you want.  Besides, we loved watching you put some of these doctor’s in their place – you know what I’m sayin’?”

“Girl,” Shannon laughed.

“Preach.  Off you go.”  Shannon turned on her heel lightly and began to walk toward the elevator and heard the nurse holler down the hallway to her, “Make sure when you get outside that you call your roommate.  He needs to talk to you!”  Shannon waved her hand in acknowledgement as she fished her phone from her blazer pocket and juggled her duffel bag around to sling over her shoulder.

As she booted her cell up, it immediately began buzzing with missed calls and messages.  People sometimes could be so needy.

 

( _From Andy:_ )

_I know you’re going through with this, but be careful._

_Did you call EMTs for this?_

_I called the fire chief.  He’s mad you didn’t call.  He’s sending a small group over._

_Don’t worry.  They’re guys you know._

_I phoned the EMT.  Told me which hospital.  Thanks a lot, loser._

_O’Rourke called me when you woke up._

_Bring home some breakfast.  Hung-over._

“Oh, Andy,” she sighed with a smile.  Such care and devotion to a human being suffering from near death…and then asking her to bring him food because he’s hung-over.  _He probably broke up with his girlfriend last night.  Their relationship had been growing tumultuous.  But hey, what are ‘friends’ for._

 

( _From O’Rourke_ :)

_I’ve tried calling you.  You’re not picking up._

_(4 missed calls)_

_Seriously, Shannon, this is getting old._

_Called your roommate.  What the fuck are you doing?!_

_You better not be in that water.  We have something to discuss._

‘ _Whatever,_ ’ she thought to herself.  Other than that, no one else seemed to know or care that she was experimenting with the elements, so to speak.

She paid for her parking token and walked outside, pressing 11 on her phone for speed-dial.  She placed the smartphone to her ear and listened as it rang two and a half times.  “Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” she sing-songed.

“Oh my God.  Why would you call me…” Andy groaned on the other end.  There was a series of muffled sounds and a thud that Shannon attributed to him falling out of his bed.  “…don’t you know…”

“Yes, yes, I know, Jesus.  Calm down.  The nurse told me that you wanted me to call you when I got out of the hospital.  I’m assuming you want cinnamon bagels, yes?”

“Yes,” he whimpered.  “And some of that nice cream cheese?”

She rolled her eyes and smiled knowingly, “Yeah, yeah.  Stand up.”

“Why?”

“Because, I’m helping you. Walk down the hall and open the door to my room.”

“The room’s spinning, Shannon.”

“Do it, you dick, or I won’t bring you food.”

Grumbling, Shannon could hear him stumble around their apartment as she reached her car and put the keys into the ignition.  “Fine.  I opened the door.  OH MY GOD, SHANNON.  Your room’s a mess!”

“Shut up, Andy,” she snarled, “Been busy the past month, you insensitive ass.  On the end table to your right: purple sports drink, bottle of water, some Acetaminophen, and a multi-vitamin.  Take them.  In that order.  I’ll be home shortly.”

“Sorry…I mean, I love you…but sorry for the mess thing –“ he groveled, “I know you’ve taken a hit and all…”

Her nostrils flared, “Just drop it.  I’m leaving the garage now.”  She placed her token into the receptacle and left to go breakfast hunting.  “Close the door and go sit in the living room.”

“Okay.”   She heard him thud around the house and collapse on the couch.  Not a moment later, the doorbell rang.  “Hang on, Shannon, someone’s at the door,” he said as he set the phone on the couch.  Seconds later, “Uh – Shannon, there’s some guys here.  O’Rourke’s with them.  They want you to come home.”

“I will be in a bit,” she griped, “Someone’s hung-over!”

“I’m getting more of a ‘Now’ impression,” he said warily.

“Invite them in, I’ll be home.”  She hung up and tossed the phone onto her passenger seat.  Overhead on her visor was a CD sleeve with different colored discs in each slot.  She grabbed the yellow one and put it into the car player and listened intently as she replayed the conversations in her head.  By the time she had found a parking spot at the bakery, the CD had finished and she made her stop.  Upon the drive home, she placed the white disc into the player and listened as the sound of static on loop played the entire way home.  She sat there, almost stoic, while she cleared her head for whatever it was that was waiting for her at home.

She found a spot on the street that wasn’t taken up by non-resident cars and could see an idling, black Mercedes parked a few spots ahead.  Shannon popped the disc out of the player, replaced it, grabbed her food and headed to the apartment.  Upon entry she was greeted by one of O’Rourke’s men, Jaime, stating that they were waiting for her.  ‘ _They,_ ’ she thought.  _‘Interesting.’_   Opening the door, she saw Andy leaning on the kitchen counter next to the toaster.  She tossed the bag at him and told him to go ahead and eat.  Andy didn’t hesitate and started to make himself and his roommate breakfast.

“O’Rourke, you’re making a habit of house calls.  I’m fine, thank you.  You can leave now.  See.  Not dead, very much alive, very much hungry and going to plan that stupid vacation you want me to take,” she explained as she dropped her bag next to the couch.

“I’m Jeremiah Edwards,” piped up the other man in the room.  W _ho, for the record, is wearing a 600 dollar suit, and English_.  “I’m here to offer you a stay in London, ma’am.”

“Not ma’am,” Shannon winced as she stared at O’Rourke.  “Really?  Is this your idea of fun?  Just because I mentioned that guy from London?  Not funny.”  
She noticed Jeremiah had his hand out for a handshake but she declined, moving about the apartment to take her shoes off and throw them into her room.

“You didn’t get my texts, then?”

“Oh no,” she mumbled as she grabbed the plate Andy had handed to her with a bagel on it.  She took a bite and muttered with her mouth open, “We have something to discuss.  And I know you don’t know any British intelligence because you would have used them last month when I was boring.  So...who did I manage to piss off that’s what, three thousand miles away from here?  Maybe less,” she swallowed, flashing her bagel around as if it were a pointer.  “Anyways, I was planning on going to Canada.  Less people up there, you know.  I could be alone.  And away.”

The look she received from O’Rourke silenced her.  He turned to Jeremiah, “I’ll help her pack and she’ll make that flight, no problem.  Thank you.”

Jeremiah nodded and strode out of the room.  As they listened to him go down the stairs, the Chief glided over to her and pinned her to a wall.  “God.  Damn.  You.  For fuck’s sake, Shannon.  Someone over there wants to pry at this case and turn it inside out.  I told you that I couldn’t deflect everything from you and now it’s looking like it’s going international!  Wake up, will you!?”

She shoved the policeman off of her and flipped him over the arm of the couch, pinning him to the floor.  “You listen to me!” she screamed.  “I am not a child!  I don’t know what’s wrong with me and so help me, if you touch me again, it will be the last thing that you do!”

With the DC on the verge of losing consciousness, Andy flew around the kitchenette and ripped Shannon off of him, tossing her down the hallway.  “APART!” he bellowed.  Shannon stood up slowly using the wall to balance herself and walked into her room to pack.

Andy helped the DC to his feet and grabbed a glass of water for him.  After coughing and sputtering for a few moments, O’Rourke looked down the empty hallway and shook his head sadly, “She didn’t do it.  But if someone gets under her skin that badly and they’re investigating her for this, they’ll put her away.”

Andy sat there dumbfounded.  “But, you killed that man.”

O’Rourke stood up and straightened his uniform out as he watched her reappear a few minutes later with a small suitcase, a gig bag, and her laptop.  Her face was sullen and placid at the same time.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Yeah, I killed him.”

Shannon handed Andy a check for her share of the month’s rent, “I’ll let you know.”

“Shannon, it’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure her, “Alright?  And you’ll be back in no time.  I’ll call the school…”

“Don’t,” O’Rourke warned.  “It’s already been done and they’ve got a story.  Just leave it.”

Shannon turned around quickly, snatched up her duffel bag and walked out the door leaving her roommate dumbstruck with DC O’Rourke trailing behind her.  The walk down the stairs between the two of them was done in silence.  When they reached the threshold to the outside world, she froze.  “Sean,” she said softly, “I’m sorry.  It was a flashback.  I – I don’t know…”

Touching the tender flesh around his neck, DC Sean O’Rourke patted her shoulder gently and stared ahead at Jeremiah holding open the car door, “I know, kiddo.  This town’s been nothing but hell since you got here last year.  And I’m sorry that I couldn’t know you on different circumstances.  Maybe this will help you cope.  Perhaps this is what needs to be done.”

She stared ahead blankly, “And are we ready for something like that?”

“You tell me, kiddo,” he said warmly.

She heaved heavy sigh and pushed the front door open and walked straight to her chauffeur and car.  Once safely inside and driving away, O’Rourke pulled out his phone and typed a small text.

 

_Shannon:_

_“What happens will happen.  And in that I am unafraid.”_

 

She looked at her phone as it buzzed quietly in her hand and read the text.  She leaned her head back and powered her phone off, considering she wasn’t going to be using it in the next half day or so.

The events that took place next flew by.  She was taken to a private jet, loaded in, and given prime seating.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jeremiah in the seat across the aisle from her texting.   Judging by finger placements and rate of tapping, there was a rather informative text about her going to M Holmes.  Her brow furrowed as she reached into her bag for her mp3 player to play music at random.  With her ear buds in place, she began trying to figure out 'M Holmes' as she closed her eyes.  Halfway through the flight, she heard the resounding chordal structures in the last movement of Bruckner VIII and her eyes shot open.  Slowly, she turned to Jeremiah and then the rest of the gentlemen on the plane with her before turning back to the man she knew.   “Jeremiah.”

Hearing noise from her for the first time in four hours startled him and he quickly faced her, “Ma’am?”

“Not ma’am,” she winced.  She leaned on her elbow towards him, “Why has Mycroft Holmes sent for me?”

“I don’t know, ma’ – I mean, miss.”

“You’re lying,” she stated abruptly.

“I can’t say.”

“Better,” she laughed under her breath, turning back to face forward and replace her ear buds, “But I have a feeling I’ll be meeting his brother, anyway.”  She hit shuffle again for her music and closed her eyes.

Jeremiah pulled out his mobile from his breast pocket:

_M Holmes:_

_She just realized it’s you, who you are.  
Made mention of brother._

_Jeremiah Edwards:_

_You’re three hours into the flight?  
-MH_

_M Holmes:  
Yes, sir. No one but I have spoken to her._

_Jeremiah Edwards:_

_Wonderful.  
-MH_

 

With her eyes still shut, Shannon loudly announced, “Was that a test? Did I pass?  There was no need to tattle to your boss.”

The other men looked to each other and scoffed.  This was almost as bad as dealing with Sherlock.  Almost.


	3. A Foggy Day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little short, but the next one - I think you'll like it.

John’s alarm blared angrily and early that morning.  After the pubs had started to close around eleven, John and some guys he knew from before his soldier days all moved to one of their flats and continued their festivities.  It had been nice to get out and feel the pulse of London around him while not have people breathing down his neck with questions about his famous flat mate.  Whether they knew, didn’t care, or were ignorant to the matter – John relished not having the topic brought up.

Groaning, John rolled over to turn it off and swung his legs up and off to the side of the bed, rubbing his face roughly.  _6 AM...only four hours sleep._   Though a little later than he normally woke, the morning still came un-welcomingly early.  He stood up slowly, stiff from the previous night, and meandered to the bathroom to relieve himself before sauntering to the kitchen for coffee.  _Today is a coffee day._

He yawned and took a long look at the mess that was all over the kitchen.  The microscope sat pristinely on the kitchen table with papers askew; Sherlock logging the progress of whatever it was that he had been working on.  Gingerly, he re-stacked some of the paperwork into semi-neat piles and started to make some toast.  No doubt, Sherlock had more or less gone to bed an hour or so ago based on the mess.  John grabbed his plate and mug and moved to the table in the living room.  It was the barest, comparatively speaking.  He ate in silence and yawned again.  He’d go for a walk soon.  _I need to wake up_.

The air was cool and refreshing, even for London city air.  Its power slammed into his senses as he took a long, drowning breath before making his way down the block.  As he strolled along the park, he was followed all too unobviously by a shiny black Jaguar.  He sighed as the car pulled up ahead of him and the door opened.  John seriously contemplated for a moment about not getting into the car for once; but, a different face peeked out from the depths of the interior.

“Well, Mycroft, that’s a surprise”

“John, how nice to see you; if you’d please spare me a moment,” he motioned with his head.

“Why can’t we just talk here?  Sherlock is asleep,” John lured.  The Ice Man took a heavy breath before John continued, “Right, why would I ever think he wasn’t following me?”

Mycroft slid over casually and balanced his umbrella between his hands.  “I will not take the chance that one day, while you may think he’s resting, he genuinely will have followed you.  Call it caring.  And tentative precautions.”  John gave a face that Sherlock deemed as ‘sass’ whilst he stared nonchalantly out the window pretending to be uninterested, “And making that face whilst we’re talking won’t make this conversation go any faster.”

John went to speak and lost his words before thinking carefully about what is was exactly that he wanted to convey, “Uh – I’m sorry.  Why am I here?”

There was a slight glimmer of a smirk that splayed across the elder Holmes’ face, “Dr. Watson, my baby brother has asked me to fly an American citizen that is a prime witness and victim in a case that is, more or less to the Americans, closed.  I think the witness I’ve flown here did it and he disagrees –“

“ –when have the two you ever really agreed on anything outside of how you abhor distaste for each other –“ he interjected.

“ –however, I am curious to know why he sent me a text asking for me to fly her here to amuse him simply because he’s bored.  Sherlock is never bored enough to _want_ to ask me to expend my resources for help.  He finds asking for things from me rather petty – he’d much rather pick my pocket and cause commotion in my schedule,” Mycroft continued without so much as a hitch in his breath.

“So,” John queried with an eye squint in contemplation, “What is Sherlock playing at?  That’s what you’re asking?”  Mycroft nodded gently in acknowledgement.  “How am I supposed to know?  He just handed me the paper yesterday and started texting!”

Mycroft drummed his fingers on his back-hand, “Well then, thank you, Dr Watson; we’ll be in touch.”

The car pulled over and John got out, “One day – just one day could we not do the cloak and dagger?”  The door shut and the car drove away, “Apparently not.”  Mildly agitated, John got his bearings and decided to head to the shop to grab some things for breakfast and return back to Baker Street before his trip to Heathrow.

When reentering their flat, John quickly deposited the groceries and grabbed his Oyster Card, remembering Sherlock having muttered something the night prior about Terminal Four at Heathrow.  John left quickly and headed to Baker Street Station to grab the Jubilee Line towards Stonebridge and then changed over at Green Park to grab the Piccadilly Line to Heathrow Four.  It wasn’t necessarily the most direct route to take, considering he could have hopped onto the Bakerloo Line, but he had some time to kill.  Sitting in the last car gave him a bit more privacy to contemplate Sherlock’s actions in the past eighteen hours.  _It didn’t quite follow form that he would ask his brother to amuse him._   Mycroft had a point; Sherlock would rather be sneaky about it and this blatant demand for work puzzled the both of them.  His phone buzzed loudly interrupting his thoughts:

 

_Mycroft:_

_The Underground?_  
_No, no, no._  
_There will be a car waiting for her at the terminal._  
_Go to her gate and ask for Francis._  
_He will take you to the tarmac._  
_-MH_

John pocketed his mobile, cranky at Mycroft’s intrusiveness.  To an extent, John was sure, Mycroft was watching and protecting whatever investment he had made to bring this woman to the country; but, still – it was nevertheless annoying.

 

* * *

 

Shannon was beginning to get stiff.  Even though she was allowed to get up and move around to stretch, she deemed it wise to park it and think to herself.  She knew that their flight was only a half hour out or so; pending the Gulf Stream, wind shear, and turbulence.  She was getting antsy: all she wanted to do was walk around and be on her own.  It had been years since her university days when she had been to London.  Her lips tingled a little at the memory of touring with her college group that spring semester; back when things were simpler – and she was a little more ordinary.  As quickly as that memory had appeared, she suppressed it and made her face vacant of expression.  _Ignore it._

“Miss, we’ll be landing soon,” Jeremiah politely informed her, “The pilot has asked us to put away the electronics.”  She nodded, powered off her mp3 player and stowed it in her blazer pocket.  “If I might be so bold –“

She looked up at his with a small furrow to her brow, “You don’t have to be so proper around me, Mr. Edwards.  But go ahead and ask your question.”

He seemed taken aback by her tone being so matter-of-fact.   He nodded and blinked his confusion away, “How did you know?  Have you met them before?”

“No, I haven’t,” she smirked, “I learn things by watching everything around me.  And to make a long explanation short: There are only so many things that you could possibly have typed out given the position of your thumbs on your Blackberry.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed with a small smile, “That’s quite good!  Really!  There were bets on the plane on how you might have known.”

Shannon shrugged it off and stared back out the window, “And how did that bet play out for you?”

He handed over fifty quid to the man that sat directly behind her, “Not as well as I had hoped, but I only had to pay half.”

“Why?” she asked as she turned back to face him.

“Because you didn’t make me feel like an idiot.”

She gave a gentle nod of understanding and turned back to the window observing England through grey skies.  “But, you are an idiot,” she whispered as self-loathing washed over her face.  Sheer disgust of herself took over her mind and body.  As the plane began to make its final decent, she wished people were only people again.  _So much for that._

 

John’s hour-long commute brought him to the terminal and he asked for Francis.  He didn’t even need to mention Mycroft’s name, as he was taken outside to the tarmac to wait for the private jet to taxi and stop.  John stood there patiently; dutifully waiting for this woman to come down the stairs.  _At least today was only laundry day – and it not even a dire need that I do the washing either_.  He just felt that he would get along with some odd chores before going back to work the next day.  It was just something that he was planning on doing to take up some time.  Not that Sherlock couldn’t be a full-time job on his own.  His shoes were dirty.  He’d have to brush them off when he got back.  Would Holmes be up yet?  It’s approaching noon – he should be.  Oh God, he needs to be clothed.

 

_Sherlock:_

_Please be dressed when we arrive._  
_-John_

“Hello, Doctor Watson.  It’s a pleasure to meet you,” came a very calm and pleasant voice.

John stared up to meet the gaze of the woman speaking to him.  She was only an inch or so taller than he, not enough to matter, really.  With the sudden interest Sherlock had in her, he had imagined her being this raving beauty or a damsel in distress – but the young woman before him was ordinary looking.  No more ordinary than him.  She was one of the people, like him, and he wondered how Sherlock would react.  He hadn’t seen her come to stand in front of him.  It was almost as if she had just appeared.

She examined his face and interjected before he spoke, “The answer, if I had to guess, is that I hope that I don’t disappoint in not being anything but myself.”  Her eyes and face were kind, but her tone was vacant and slightly cold.

Stunned, the good doctor attempted to recover, “Uh – sorry, hello.  Yes, Dr John Watson.  Pleasure to meet you.  Uh – yes, sorry, how did you know my name?”

Her features softened and a small, yet genuine smile graced her face, “I’ve read your blog.  A friend of mine from London sent the link to me some time ago.  And not to deter from everything that you’ve been through and done; but then I have to infer that Sherlock Holmes has taken an interest in the case I’m involved in.”

He stood there awestruck.  Someone who seemed so ordinary and so intelligent just politely explained an answer to him.  Was the naïve, back-handed comment coming soon?  “Yes – I suppose, yes.  Yes.  Thank you for explaining that.  Wow,” he sighed with a smile.

Jeremiah came to stand to her right holding her bags.  “I’ll take these two,” she stated grabbing her duffel and gig bag.  “My proverbial children are in there.”  She situated the straps on her shoulder.

“Well, I suppose we best be going then,” John motioned to the car and walked to hold the door open for her.  Jeremiah placed her other bag into the boot and waved off to the driver.

She looked John over and stared out the window casually, “You’re ex-military, yes?”  John looked over to her and nodded, realizing that at this point, he was doomed to be deducted for the rest of this endeavor.  “Thought as much,” she smiled to meet his gaze.  He went to ask her how she could know that and she raised her hand to silence him.  “You had mentioned it once in passing on your blog, I wasn’t being smart.  It was more of a reaffirmation.  I was thinking aloud.  Sorry about that.”

He gave a small chuckle, “I was genuinely expecting some sort of Sherlock-esque deduction about my clothes or the way my eyes move around or…”

“Your posture gives a lot away, Dr Watson.  It’s in the way that you carry yourself,” she said with her head cocked to the side.  “But no matter, it is what it is.”  She heaved a heavy sigh.

He took a genuine look at her.  There was an odd beauty to her.  Not necessarily in profile.  Her lip looked stiff and her nose may be pointed.  It could also be the light on her face as he took in the profile view playing tricks with shadow.  She turned to stare at him and he was surprised that the same face that looked somewhat pointed in one light looked completely different from the front.  Shannon pulled her phone out of her pocket and turned it on.  “You know, I never did like my face.  It’s a bit like a Picasso, in my opinion.  I never felt that my face ever belonged.  It’s a mystery.”

“I wasn’t – I didn’t mean to – er…sorry,” he blushed slightly, staring down to his hands.

“Don’t be.  You’re observing.  It’s okay.  You’ll learn to eventually do so without making it look so obvious.  It’s an art.”

“As well as I can see that medical ID bracelet that you failed to cut off,” he disclosed tenderly.

“Ah, yes.”  Shannon fished into her gig bag and pulled out piece of metal and used it to break the seal on the plastic.  She crumpled up the plastic in her hand and placed it in one of the small pouches of her bag.

“Is that a mouthpiece?” John smirked, looking at the particular shape of the item in her hand.

“Maybe,” she laughed.  “I play – er, used to.  I guess.  It’s all banged up.  I keep it as a souvenir from good times past.”  She placed the mouthpiece back into her bag and unzipped the main compartment and pulled out her trumpet.  It was clean, but upon closer inspection, John could see small dents and scratches and signs of wear on the silver instrument.  “He has been well loved, I can assure you.”

“He?” John lightheartedly scoffed.  “How do you know it’s a ‘he’?  It’s a trumpet.”

She opened her eyes slowly and looked over at him and the trumpet with affection, “You only need to hear him.”

John smiled and handed her prized possession back to her and pulled his mobile out of his pocket.  Suddenly, Shannon had his phone in her hands and was pressing buttons.  “Now, excuse me!” John cried out, “That’s mine, if you please, give it back!”

She did so after a moment, “I’ve programmed my cell – I mean mobile into your phone.  I do plan on taking walks and such while I’m in the city.  I refuse to be kept cooped up like a caged animal.  If you need me, I can get in touch with you.”

“Oh,” he muttered.  “That’s not the intention at all, I assure you!”  Why was he apologizing when she was the one that had taken his phone? That wasn’t polite at all.  He opted to change the subject.  “So, care to tell me why you were in the hospital?”

“Not particularly,” she said in blatant honesty, “But I’m sure you can figure it out if I tell you my body temperature was eighty-two degrees.”  She watched as the Doctor flipped the number into Celsius.  “Ah, there you are.”

“Hypothermia?  Oh my God, are you alright?” he exclaimed.  He reached out to her wrist to take her pulse and looked to his watch.

“Yes, thank you.  I’m fine.”

“You should have stayed in the hospital and kept getting fluid...and having someone watch over you!”

“It was controlled, I am fine, and I was released.”

“What do you mean _controlled_?  What about hypothermia is controlled?” he stammered as he let go of her wrist.

She shrugged and stared back out the window, “I put myself in an arctic tank the Coast Guard uses for test runs, down to just my bathing suit, so that I could know what hypothermia is in the event I am called to do something incredibly intelligent or ridiculously stupid.”  The warmth that had been in her voice had left and she was merely saying words.  It was emotionless.  “I taped it and recorded it so that I can study it.”

“Oh my God,” John sighed.  She was like Sherlock.


	4. Something Like Fire

_Sherlock:_

_I have our guest._   
_Home soon._   
_You better be dressed._

_John:_

_What, I can’t wear the sheet?_   
_Remember, six._   
_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_She’s easily a nine._

_John:_

_You’re exaggerating._   
_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_I wish._

Sherlock stared at the last message from John.  _I wish._   John always put more words than necessary in his texts.  Always – it was just John.  But those two words, being so succinct and specific about John’s supposed conversation with her in the car perplexed him.  And of course there would be a car, Mycroft was showing off.  She was a witness.  Possibly a suspect, but he didn’t truly believe that.  And there was no way that the officer in that article had shot the murderer.  _Interesting._ He scanned the flat quickly, taking in everything that was out in the open.  _What if John is on to something?  Oh, John does have his moments.  This just might be one of them._

 

_Sherlock:_

_Will be at Baker Street in 5._

Wonderful.  Splendid.  Oh, it was almost as good as those suicide murders.  That rush of adrenaline that he would soon get at the thrill of figuring out another puzzle.  He dropped the sheet from his torso, kicked it up, and walked to his room to change.  Or at least put on something.  It remained to be seen whether or not this woman would meet the hype that John had instilled in him.  Shrugging, he opened his drawer and pulled out a pair of his dark trousers and socks, and took the dark blue shirt off of its hanger.  He had walked into the living room as he was finishing the buttons on his shirt when he heard the key click to the front door.  He was pacing slowly around the room as he heard John speak with Mrs. Hudson about their guest.  Mycroft, no doubt, would be paying to put her up somewhere. 

“Yes, dear, Mycroft came by not long after you left, he’s rented out the basement flat for her,” she said sweetly.

 _Lovely.  Oh how absolutely thoughtful of you, brother._   Sherlock rolled his eyes quickly and kept pacing around.  His mind and body were buzzing.  He needed some stimulation.  It had been too long without anything to keep him occupied.

“I’ll help you get situated then,” John declared.  _Of course.  He’s being chivalrous.  He must not really know how bored I am to ask Mycroft for a case_.  He heard the door open and shut while the shifting of cloth and bag become quieter.  There’s a small click from the door and noise on the stairs and stops at the doorway.

Sherlock whipped around to begin to show off, and only found John.  “Why have you left her downstairs?”

John folded his arms across his chest, “She needs to rest.”

“She had the chance to rest on that flight.  She left at five Eastern Standard.  She flew overnight.”

“I said ‘no’, Sherlock,” John asserted.  “Not right now.  As a doctor, I have advised that she get some rest first.”

He let out a huff, “Then I didn’t need to be dressed yet.”

John ignored him and went into the kitchen, “When I sent that text, it was before I knew that she needed to rest.”  Sherlock quirked a brow and said nothing more on the matter.  “I’ll have toast for you in a moment.  You should eat before you start this ‘case’.”  The detective nodded and walked to the window, picking up his violin and bow.  “Timing,” John warned.

Sherlock groaned and replaced his wooden instrument back on the desk, then deciding to pace around until breakfast was ready, remembering their conversation on being a tad more compassionate to those around him.  John left a plate for Sherlock and took a plate and cuppa down to the young woman.  He heard muffled noises, not enough to discern anything of substance and angrily bit into his toast.  This was pure agony: dangling his new ‘toy’ in front of him and chastising him with a big ‘no’.  John returned and poured himself a cup of tea, and the two ate in relative silence.  John looked up casually at him as Sherlock skimmed over the paper.

“I know that you’re bored.  But you have to let her rest.  She promised to take a small rest and would be up in an hour or two.  And I don’t want you going down there to snoop.”

“I wouldn’t go down and ‘snoop’.”

“Yes you would, that’s what you do when you want to try and be clever or when you do not get your way.”

Sherlock snapped the paper shut, “Fine then, I’ll just busy myself.  I have some work to do.”  He got up and scowled as he pulled out a set of slides from the top shelf of the fridge, (simply because it was a chore for John to reach and put groceries there,) and sat himself in front of his microscope.

John’s knowing smirk splayed across his face, “You’re pouting.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.  Your face is giving you away.”

“Shut up, John,” he whined with a graveled voice.  He carefully adjusted the back light and the knobs as he began to immerse himself in his cultures.  He would periodically take notes on his observations between the various slides.

“John, will you hand me my notepad?” he requested with an outstretched palm.   When the pad hit his fingertips he looked up quickly to give John a non-verbal thank you and met eyes that were a little higher than they should have been if they had been John’s.  But this pair was light brown.  “Where’s John?”

Her eyebrows were raised in surprise, and she walked toward the living room.  Sherlock sat there in mild shock at her still not being John, his eyes quickly assessing his situation.  He stood up and was in the living room in one swift movement.  “Have a seat,” he motioned to the seat on the left.  She gently sat in the one on the right.

 _She’s sitting in my chair. Conclusion: she’s challenging me.  No.  Challenging my intellect._   His eyes narrowed.  She curled her legs underneath her, wearing a pair of jeans, a white v-neck, and a grey zip-up.  Her brunette hair was pulled up into a messy bun.  _Comfortable clothing: not enough time to pack, doesn’t care, seeking comfort – comfort.  Yes.  Comfort.  Eyes: brown, lighter towards the pupil.  
“Stocky frame, most likely 5’8” – callouses on the inner side of thumbnails and around her fingertips.  Slightly depressed cupid’s bow on her mouth.  Conclusion: musician, most likely brass._  _Eyes, a dull brown that grew slightly lighter near the pupil, almost grey there.  Face, square and full.  Been eating unhealthily for past two weeks.  Nails are cut short and clothing indicates another person in her residence, most likely male.”_

He didn’t realize that he was speaking aloud until he blinked to look at her in full and he heard the resonance of his voice dissipate in the room.  He cleared his throat.  “So, you’re the woman from Boston that figured out her brother’s murder in less than a week.  I should commend you,” he said almost tartly as he looked for some sign of a shift in her body language.  But there wasn’t one.

He placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his fingertips to his temple waiting, “I do know that you play a brass instrument and haven’t played it in some time; and, without looking at your case file, that you aren’t the one who killed your brother’s murderer and that there’s something amiss if you’ve fooled everyone else into thinking that you were just miraculously able to pull those answers out of thin air.  So, my dear Bostonian, what have you to say to all of that being presented to you on your first night in this _wondrous_ city?”

She blinked slowly and sighed, “Firstly, John said you would do that.  It happens when you get involved into your work.  Secondly, I may presently live in Boston, but I’m not from Boston, my dear London-boy.  And if you’re half as smart as you claim to be, those are things that can readily be seen.”  She un-tucked her legs and stretched out to stand before walking to the doorway to the stairs.

“I see and observe; therefore I am able to deduct.”

She looked straight ahead toward the stairs, “You’re not, though.  It’s the third form of inference called abductive reasoning.  If you were deducting, you would be making an inference on the truth of an assumption.”  John walked into the flat silent; hearing Shannon conversing with him and stood there, bemused at the scenario unfolding before him.  “If you were using inductive reasoning, you’re making a logical guess based on what you observe even if the observation isn’t one hundred percent true.  So, therefore, you’re using abductive reasoning to observe rules and coming to conclusions from those inferences.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped slowly as she quickly gave her speech, and he shook his head in astonishment.  John, wide-eyed, took his mobile from his breast pocket, pointed it at Sherlock, and took a series of ten pictures and shot video.

“Not to sound like a pompous asshole, Mr. Holmes, but you’ve been using that term wrong for quite a while now.  I’m merely trying to inform you before someone else that might have a decent grasp of the English language comes forward and embarrasses you.”   John’s mouth was equally agape as he turned his head to face Shannon.  She wasn’t looking at them and a small smirk came to her face as she looked down the stairs, “And you both can close your mouths.  That’s enough for tonight.  Goodnight, boys.  I’m going out for dinner.”

She headed down the stairs and then backtracked up the stairs and tossed an SD card to Sherlock who had since shut his mouth and caught the card with his left hand.  “Oh, and that’s what I observed about you in the five minutes before you noticed I was here.  ‘Night.”

And in a moment, she was gone.

Sherlock looked to John, “You can close your mouth now.”  John did so with an immense grin taking over.  “Shut up.”

“Did she seriously just put you in your place?  I’ve been imagining this moment all day!  And I missed part of it?!”

Holmes shot a wary glare, grabbed his laptop and slid the SD card into place.  Her laptop sat idly at his feet.  That meant that she had been sitting there while she was making her observations.  It was a 30 second video that popped up.  John came around quickly and stood behind his friend to watch.  He pressed play:

“Well, Mr. Holmes.  If you’re playing this card the day we’ve not formally been introduced, it’s most likely because you were trying to be a showoff and in turn, were desperately trying to prove your reputation for being an ignorant, arrogant asshole.  Fortunate for you, I can see that you are beyond dedicated to your work and to those that you surround yourself with.  You are going to consistently deflect any verbal contract to the matter because you feel that it is the best way to protect them.  Not yourself.  As I look around this room and watch you work, there is energy in the quiet and it’s quite intoxicating.  You haven’t spoken, but by observing your physique, I am going to make an assumption that you’ve got a baritone voice and little to nothing gets past your eyes.  I also guessed that you played the violin before I could smell the rosin on these chairs.  It’s the type of callouses you have on your left hand and the musculature on the left side of your neck is only slightly more developed than the right.  There’s also a very good chance that, if you have this the first night that you’ve spoken to me, that you struck a low blow or said something that I found annoying, so I apologize if I more or less put you in your place.  I’ve most likely given this to you because I believe.  I believe that you are not only a great mind, but a good person.  But the fact of the matter is: I really want some fries.  I mean chips.  You call them chips.  And I know I passed a pub about three or so blocks from here on the way to your residence and I’m famished.  If I’ve passed whatever proverbial test that I had to do to ‘ _impress_ ’ you; because I can tell that not a whole lot of that has happened much, especially as of late, you’ll know where to find me.   Oh and if you’re not playing this the first time we spoke, then I was completely wrong about you, and you failed to meet my expectations.”

“Close your mouth, John.  And give me your phone.”

“NO!” he growled jovially as he buried the phone deep into his front pocket.  “I am going to keep this, forever.  And send it to Lestrade.  And your brother if you’re not nice to her,” John laughed.

Sherlock put his steepled fingers to the base of his nose.  She should aggravate him.  He should text his brother, have him send her back to where she came from and find a reason to not involve himself.  He shouldn’t let her bait him like this.  He shouldn’t be intrigued.  She seemed so ordinary. _But..._

Sherlock stood up quickly and was down the stairs.  “John!” he yelled up the stairs.  By the time John made it to the doorway, he saw Sherlock adjusting his scarf and slipping on his coat out the door.

John’s ever growing smile and lilt in his step as he took the steps two at a time to catch up with Sherlock would have made anyone think that John was happy.  But of course, no, no no; he obviously wasn’t elated that Sherlock was perplexed.  In a good way.  _And Sherlock’s complete dazzling lack of commentary was only all the more indicative that he wasn’t sure that he knew what he was doing._

John had to jog to cover ground from Sherlock’s long and quick stride.  “Sherlock, she’s going to be waiting.  Slow down.”

“How do you know?” he whipped around abruptly.  “Did she say something?”

“No,” he said slowly; his grin now beginning to fade with annoyance, “I just know that she’s dedicated.  She’s here now, so she’s all in.”

John got a quick once over, “What did you discuss on the way here?  Why did you tell her to rest!” he shouted.

They resumed walking towards the pub, “You can ask her yourself when we get there.  I was just smart for a moment and observed something.”

“Oh, did you?” his cheeks were beginning to lightly flush from the cool air and quick movement.

By the time they were across the street, Sherlock paced around a moment or two, analyzing the situation he had put himself in.  He saw her broad back facing him, her hair now up in a ponytail, and that she was politely conversing with the woman behind the counter.  It was obvious to him that the worker was desperately trying to flirt; but, Shannon’s body language was deceptive.  “Come on,” John groaned after grabbing his friend by the elbow and dragging him across the street.

John walked up to Shannon and shook her hand, “That – my God, Shannon – that was brilliant and I’m sure to never forget it.  Thank you!”

Her eyes softened as she grabbed her food from the counter and moved to the back booth.  John obliged and grabbed her drink before placing his drink order.  Sherlock stiffened slightly as John sat down across from her and they situated themselves.

“Hand me your jumper, I can throw it over here because I’m sure he’s going to sit beside you so that he can watch me,” she laughed.  John did so, and she held her hand out to Sherlock in a similar fashion as he had earlier.  Still standing, he looked down at her, skeptical.  “Look, Mr. Holmes, you can take everything out of your pockets if you feel like I’m going to rob you – but you’re here now.  That’s a small demonstration of something we like to call ‘trust’,” she explained making a pointing motion between her and John.

John’s small, sassy smirk graced his face as he looked up at Sherlock with nothing but triumph.  Sherlock took his mobile out of his breast pocket and put it into a pocket of his jacket as he shrugged off his coat and folded it before handing it over.  He unbuttoned his jacket as he sat down carefully, still trying to find something on her that would give him some sort of idea to whom exactly she was.

“You know, Mr. Holmes, I picked this ensemble for a reason,” she gestured to her clothing, “And to answer your question: I hadn’t worn them before.  And they’re comfy.”

Sherlock steepled his hands to his face and rested his elbows on the table, “You made quite a lot of observations, Miss Byrns.  I must say that I am surprised.”

She moved the basket towards the gentlemen in an offering for them to eat.  John sat there and admired the entire situation.  Here he was with the great Sherlock Holmes – and he seemed to be grasping at nothing.

“Is that a good thing?” she asked taking a fry and biting off of it.  Her eyes looked over his face as he contemplated her.  Not what she said, not necessarily what she did; but, the essence of her – the paradoxical form of her that almost shouldn’t be.

“I’m not sure.”

She sighed and crossed her arms, “Fine then.  I propose _quid pro quo_.  If you want an answer from me, you have to eat something.  Completely.  For every answer you hope to get.”  She eyed John and gave him a small wink.  “And that’s how tonight will go.”

John took a large swig of his beer and looked at the sparks between them.  There wasn’t any challenging here.  It was a simple compromise.  She knew from John’s blog that he didn’t often eat once cases were started.  And he knew that she could make such a conclusion based on how he hadn’t partaken and that his physique was leaner than John’s.  She extended her hand for a handshake and waited.  He looked down and slowly met her gaze.  “Then I want nothing but the truth from you.”

She nodded, “As long as you don’t ask anything directly blatant about my case.  That would be cheating.”

He smirked in agreement and John placed his open palm on the table also, “I think I have some questions, also.”

 _How could she have been so vacant earlier in the flat_?  This woman is warm and gentle – kind, if you will.  She was so much like John – and she was so much like him.

“Fine,” and Sherlock shook her hand.  Upon a protesting look from her, he then shook John’s hand as well.  “I’ll start.  Judging by the slight depression of your lip and the mild callouses on your hands, I’m going to have to guess that you play brass instruments.  Specifically high brass – I’m going to say the horn.”

“Quid pro quo,” she reminded him.  His smirk didn’t leave his face as he picked up a chip and ate it entirely.  Satisfied, looked to John to answer the question.

“Oh – er…she plays the trumpet, actually.  She showed it to me in the car.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.  She interjected, “You are right.  I do play brass instruments.  And lately I was working on horn.  But my university days were spent being a trumpet player.”

John took a fry from the other basket and made a show of eating it, “What did you go to school for?”

She looked between the both of them and folded her hands on the table, “Music education.  But times are rough for the profession with schools cutting funding and subsidizing their programs to non-profits…you could be amazing and still not get a job.”  Sherlock took another chip, ate it and waited for her to finish.

“You live with a man at home?”

“Yes, I do.  He’s a friend of the family that was trying to help me get on my feet whilst I was looking for a new job in the Boston area.  I had just landed a long term substitute job when – everything happened.  His name is Andy.  And expect you to be kind if he calls.”

Sherlock was already eating another chip before she finished and John stared astonished.  “What had you in the hospital earlier?”

She looked to John, “I didn’t say anything.”

She looked to her wrists and noted a slight red mark left from ripping the bracelet off and saw the minor bruising on the back of her hand, “Ah yes, the IV.”  Sherlock’s eyes flinched lightly in delight.  “I have been doing some tests of the human body as of late so that I can log experiences and such away.  I called in a favor to a few friends and was able to borrow a water tank-”

“Shannon,” John chided.

“-to test the effects and the process of hypothermia.  I was in the water for just over eight minutes with a core temperature of twenty-eight Celsius before the medics sent the diver in to fetch me.  I have both audio and visual data from beginning to end on laptop.”

His voice dropped and rattled the table through his arms, “Considering what you’ve been through, people might think that was dangerous behaviour.”

“Is it?” she questioned after swallowing her mouthful of food.

Shannon’s head kept tilting this way and that ever-so slightly.  “What are you listening for?”

“Quid pro quo.”

At this point, John had resigned to keeping quiet and eating the food before him as he watched the elegant chess match being played in this worn booth.  Exasperated, Sherlock to a small handful of chips, stacked them, and attempted to eat them all at once.  He could remind you of a small child doing an impression of a hamster.

“Can’t you hear the sounds of it all?” she asked after he had swallowed his food, “All the sounds around you – all the time, and mostly it’s just beautiful.  I’m just digesting it all.”

“If not from Boston, then where are you from?”

“Somewhere in the Mid-Atlantic.  You’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Hamish,” John interjected at the moment he saw a wisp of admiration flash across the detective’s face.

Shannon gave out a hearty laugh, “Oh no, Dr. Watson – I don’t think so.  We are quite far from that.”

“I love your laugh,” the doctor immediately replied, “It’s very genuine – and very – er…”

“It’s alright, I know that I laugh like a man.  I was picked on in school for it at a time because I don’t giggle.”

Sherlock dropped his right and drummed a slight beat on his jaw line with his fingers.  She noticed the movement and gazed intently.  John watched as the cogs of her mind turned so quickly while her face looked so peaceful.  This girl that was sitting before him was truly remarkable.  He hoped that Sherlock saw that.  “Vivaldi.”

John withdrew from his haze, “Sorry – what?”

“Come now John, she wasn’t looking at my face because I’m good looking.  I was playing some Vivaldi.  You’re not bad,” he said with a dark chuckle.

“Well,” she said staring at the now empty chip baskets, “I try – sometimes.”

“At some point, I’d like to watch your documentation from the hypothermia trial,” Sherlock whispered, hoping John wouldn’t hear.

“Of course,” she replied, handing both men their coats and getting up to pay the barmaid.

Sherlock overheard her speaking to the barmaid as they moved to the front door, “And here’s an extra tip for your trouble for putting up with us so late.  And don’t say ‘no’.  I’m an American and it’s something that we do.”

“I thought for a moment that you were meeting a bloke here,” she said shyly, slipping Shannon her number, “But then I saw these two and realized I didn’t have any competition.  Those two are a pair, aren’t they?” she quipped with a smile.

“They are,” Shannon retorted, stuffing the number into her hoodie pocket, “But they’re not a couple.”

“But –“

John’s face lit up like Christmas and Sherlock met him outside as Shannon finished paying.  The two men laughed and waited for their new flat mate to head back to Baker Street.

John, a little crestfallen after seeing Shannon take the number out of her pocket and twirl it between her fingers followed close behind as Sherlock took lead.  “No, Doctor Watson, I’m not gay.”  He stopped mid-step in shock as neither of them turned around.  “And you can stop staring at my ass now.”

The great detective’s eyes lit up at the small jab to Watson left him reeling.  Regardless of first impressions, she was fun.  She could keep up.  And she could observe.


	5. The Blinding Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polling the audience: what do you think?

Upon reentering the landing at Baker Street, Shannon silenced both men who were chatting idly, albeit loudly, about the last case that they had worked on.  “Mrs. Hudson’s asleep.  Do be kind.”

Her scolding gaze worked on both grown men and they silenced themselves immediately.  Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and was hushed.  “Gentlemen, where’s the nearest place around here with a pool that I could get access to?”  The face John gave at the mention of a pool almost had her in a fit of laughter.  “No, I mean a real pool.  I swim laps.”

“Over on Seymour Place, at the Leisure Center,” Holmes replied softly.  He handed over a card from his pocket.  “Take this with you and they’ll give you the entire pool if you want some quiet time.”

She took the card and examined it, “Someone owes you a favor, I suppose?”

He shrugged off his coat and began walking up the stairs, “More or less.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”

John turned to face her and frowned, “Please.  It’s John and Sherlock.”

She nodded as Sherlock paused on the stairs.  “As you’d like,” she whispered as she opened the door to her room and closed it behind her.

John tossed his coat over the bannister and followed behind to go to his room.  Sherlock was staring out the window, rotating his phone in his hand.  “So,” John broke the silence in a hoarse whisper, “what do we think?”

Calculating eyes moved from spot to spot on the street, reanalyzing the happenings from the day, “I’m not sure yet.  I have a few ideas.  But the more she speaks, the more the ideas become implausible.”

“She’s very bright – almost as bright as you,” John stated, leading for another answer.

“Perhaps.  That remains to be seen.  Something’s still amiss – I don’t quite see the connection yet between her brother and the shooter,” he groaned, running his hands through his dark hair.  “Why?”

“Because it’s late and you’ve only been on speaking terms with her for the better part of –“ John glanced at his watch, “-almost three hours?”

Sherlock moved to the couch and sulked, “I need to think.”

“Well, do get some sleep – at least more than you did this morning – and don’t startle her!” John warned before turning to go to his room.

Sherlock waved the idea of disturbing her away.  He should get some sleep.  And follow her to the pool tomorrow.  You can learn a lot from a person’s behaviours.  Resigning to his plan, Sherlock Holmes turned off the important light switches as he went by to his room and shut the door.  He removed his clothing and folded them, placing them on the drawer top next to his window.  He pulled out a pair of his pajama bottoms, (all for the sake of not hearing John whine,) to wear to bed.  His queen bed welcomed him kindly like an old friend.  The only issue was that Sherlock’s mind wasn’t completely ready to succumb to sleep.

This woman was puzzling him.  How could he have so grossly underestimated her; not only a victim, but a witness?  If Sherlock could aid in faking Irene Adler’s death with her being a top priority person with multiple governments and groups, what was there to stop her from doing the same for her brother?  
He had done a check on her brother: comparatively speaking, he was a nobody.  His mind continued to race until finally around three in the morning, he was hit with a wave of tiredness and he drifted off soundly to sleep.

In Shannon’s room, she was still awake, listening to music on her mp3 player to try and wind down from the toll of the day.  It was interesting for her to note that Sherlock wasn’t looking down on her since he was verbally backhanded.  It wasn’t that she was trying to be mean – it was just her being more matter-of-fact and aware of things.   She looked down to her playlist and changed it from the one titled Red to Orange.  Who knew how all of this might come into play later?  It was best to be safe as opposed to sorry.  Her music taste is all over the map.  She had everything from the Epitaph of Seikilos to Berlioz, Beethoven to Schoenberg, and Hank Williams to The Who to Maroon 5.

There were thousands of hours of music on her computer, and only her key playlists were imported onto her mp3 player.  Her ear buds hummed wonderfully in her ears as she shifted songs around.  Music helped her to process information that was anything more than trivial.  She couldn’t quite explain how or why – but after her brother Matt had died, it became the best way for her to cope.  And it started that night; the night of the murder.  But it wasn’t really night – it was late in the afternoon.  Wasn’t it?  So much of those three or so hours seemed like such a blur.  It was almost as if her mind was trying to erase it all and override that day with something more pleasant.

She changed the track and found a relatively new pop song came up next – she lost track of her thoughts and lightly tapped the beat against her chest with her fingertips.  She’d only closed her eyes for a moment, but that’s all it took for her to quickly drift into slumber.

 

* * *

 

Her phone went off around five or so.  Sherlock could faintly hear it through the walls.  It didn’t go off long; perhaps for only two seconds or so before she had shut it off.  He rolled over and stretched with a muffled groan.  He’d only been asleep for a few hours.  _And that can’t be anymore sleep than she got_.    
He could hear her pad up the steps quietly and start moving about in the kitchen.  There was the quiet clinking of mugs and plates.  She also put something on the counter that was rather solid – it made a hard sound against the counter top.  Suddenly, Sherlock smelled toast.  She ate rather quickly and drank some tea.  He rolled over and placed his hands behind his head, listening to her morning routine.  It was rather surprising that she had acclimated to the time change so quickly – unless she was a night owl and this was the time of night when she would go swimming at home.  He heard the light twinkling of her keys hitting the keychain they were attached to, movement down the stairs to her apartment, and then the door closing.

Sherlock threw off his sheet and moseyed toward the kitchen, grabbing his dressing gown off the hook of his door.  He looked about and saw that the kettle was wrapped in a towel with a little note attached: _brewed at 5:25  -shannon_     
The shuffling from upstairs was indicative that John was awake and on his way down.  John came into the kitchen wearing his sleep clothes, quite groggy and surprised to see Sherlock up and mobile.

“You’re up a little earlier than normal.  Or, didn’t you go to bed last night,” he yawned in questioning.

Sherlock poured them both some tea and set the cup on the kitchen table, “I went to sleep.  I didn’t sleep long.  Her alarm woke me up.”

“I didn’t hear it.”

“It wasn’t very loud – I was sleeping rather lightly.”

“Ah,” he muttered, sipping on his tea tentatively.  “Thinking about yesterday?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Obviously.  And that you kept checking her out all night.”  Sherlock’s eyes showed mirth.

“Now, Sherlock, you wipe that smugness off your face!”

“Shh –“ he warned, “She’s still downstairs; no doubt stretching and warming up before she heads out.  ...I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

John glared at his over the paper, “That face.”

“It’s my face.”

“Stop it.”

Shannon’s door opened and shut, as did the door to the outside world.  Sherlock rushed into his room and grabbed his clothes from the previous night to change.  “Change your shirt,” John hollered.

Annoyed, Sherlock reached in the closet and grabbed the black button-up and strode out of the flat and down the stairs.  “Coming, John?”

“No, no – I don’t think so, she’ll be back.  I’ve got some chores to do.”

Shannon followed the route given to her by the GPS on her phone and reached the center fairly quickly; it was only a few blocks away.  Not long after opening at 6:30, the American entered the premises and showed the card to the man at the front desk.

“Ah, yes, how can we help you today, Miss…”

“Byrns.  But Shannon is just fine.  I was hoping that I could use your pool.”

He nodded, “Of course – but today is free swim day, just so that you are aware.”

“That’s fine – is it possible for me to put a line in to close off a lane of the pool? I’ll close off the furthest lane away.”

“Of course, I’ll have one of our employees come and assist you.”

“Wonderful,” she smiled, “ – er, which way do I go to the locker room?”

“To the left, Miss, and then there are signs that will direct you to the natatorium.”

“Thank you!” she flashed a warm smile and headed off.

Sherlock entered the building ten minutes or so after her and walked to the man behind the desk, “Someone came in here not long ago – she used my card.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, she’s going to the pool, is there a problem?”

“Oh, no – If it’s not too much trouble, I’ll go and find her.”

“Not at all, please,” the gentlemen motioned.

Sherlock shrugged his coat off and tore the scarf from his neck as he walked to the pool.  He took his time, considering she was a woman – since, generally, they tended to take more time to get ready.  He was surprised, however, to find her and an employee moving the divider across the pool to section off a lane.  There was a brief exchange between the two women, and then Shannon was left on her own.  No one else had come to swim yet.   She wore a dark one-piece suit with a towel loosely draped around her waist.  She dropped her bag off to the side on a bench and fixed her hair.  She held a diving cap in her hand, obviously debating whether or not to put it on.  It was tossed casually back into her bag and her sandals were slipped off.  She unwrapped her towel from her body and laid it on top of her bag, then made her way to the edge of the pool.  Her blue goggles hung loosely at her neck while she dipped quickly into the water, completely submerging herself.  As she was underwater, Sherlock slipped into the natatorium and hid himself in the shadows.  She resurfaced, hoisted herself out of the water and got up onto the diving block; flapping her arms behind her and focusing on her breathing.  He had glimpsed the musculature of her back as she stretched out.  He realized that he was consciously making an effort to match her breathing pattern.  She was breathing so deeply – the rush of oxygen was intoxicating.  His eyes, intent on his target, saw a strong body and an even stronger mind becoming one with each other.  This was not only just staying fit, she was religious about this.  She started humming some tune that he didn’t recognize and tapping her foot as she got down on the block.  Suddenly she had rocketed herself off and immersed herself in the water.  When she resurfaced, he saw that her strokes were measured to the tempo she had been beating earlier.

She could feel every muscle set on fire like an engine first coming to life.  Her body set its own pace as she shot through the water.  Shannon wasn’t trying to set any records, it was a matter of trying to do one more length than she did last.  She always tried to do fifteen hundred meters.  Always.  After that, she always measured how many lengths she did.  As she was making her way back after her sixth length, she came up for air and saw a figure hiding in the shadow.  _Six foot tall, dark hair, pale complexion.  Oh, Mr. Holmes – how nice of you to visit._   She opted to ignore him and kept going.  _There’s still twenty-four lengths to go before I would make my minimum_.

He knew that he'd been spotted.  Her one lengthened glance as she came up for air gave it away.  He tossed his coat and scarf onto the bench and proceeded to walk around the pool slowly.  Her body was a well-oiled machine; water rippled off of her limbs.  Her body was becoming more and more flushed with every turn she made as lactic acid slowly began to build up.  She swam for near forty-five minutes, doing just over thirty-six lengths.  She hadn’t noticed that Sherlock had moved his coat beside her bag; that he had rolled his sleeves up to compensate for the heat, or the other people that were now in the pool.  He refused to openly admit it, but he was fascinated with her.  Not because of her physique -  that was shallow; but, because of what he was learning about her.  She was so much more of a puzzle than he had dreamed of.  He bit the inside of his lip as he watched her finish her last lap and his eyes darted back and forth to take in her actions.

Frustrated, Shannon slammed her hand against the water; she did far worse than she had been doing for the past month.  A week ago, she made it to forty-three lengths; this was unacceptable.  She ripped her goggles off of her face and tossed them onto the pool deck, swimming to the corner to hoist herself out of the water.  As she did so, her arms burned and her heart raced.  She would have to document this as a possible side-effect from the hypothermia, perhaps.  Doctor Watson would know better.

“I’m surprised that you stayed in here for almost an hour,” she huffed sitting on the edge of the pool.  Shannon closed her eyes and forcibly began to regain control of her breathing.  “You didn’t have to follow me.”

“No, I didn’t.  But John told me that I wasn’t permitted to snoop around your flat while you slept,” he retorted.

“No, it’s only illegal.  And slightly creepy.”  She closed her eyes and stretched her neck and shoulders out.  “I should have swum better than that today.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, “You did thirty-six lengths just under forty-five minutes.  That’s very good when you consider records are set under the half-hour mark for the fifteen hundred.”

She lifted her legs out of the water and stood slowly, “But I’ve done better than that.  It’s annoying.”  Her breathing was slow and steady, but it was visible that her heart was still pumping furiously to catch up.

He looked over her and nodded.  Red patches covered her face, chest, and arms.  Her chest rose and fell steadily, and her heart rate was higher than she would admit, given the way the veining in her neck pulsed.  Her legs were well-sculpted and she had a slight hourglass figure.  Her full breasts were contained in the tight swimsuit that was digging angrily into her skin.  _She's just average_.

Shannon walked over to her bag and rewrapped the towel around her waist.  She took out a granola bar from her bag and inhaled it then shouldering her bag to go back to the locker room.  She handed the detective his things and slid into her sandals.  “You’re being abnormally quiet, Mr. Holmes.  I can only guess as to why.”

“I have nothing to say at the moment,” he chided as he stared down at her.

“I find that hard to believe.  I’ve inferred that you always have something to say,” she retorted smugly.

She moved to the locker room and he followed her, “Why?  I’m thinking.”

“No, you’re not.  You make a face when you’re thinking.  You’re not making the face,” she chirped flatly.

He showed disgust, “No I’m not.  It’s my face.  I know what it’s doing.”

“You may be a master of portraying characters, Mr. Holmes, but you can’t betray yourself.”  She opened the door to the locker room and stopped abruptly, having Sherlock collide into her.  “You can’t come in here.”

“Why not?” he growled, “You wanted me to be talkative; here I am conversing.”

She pointed to the sign, “Though I’m not self-conscious, this is a public girls’ locker room.  You can’t come in here.  I would only encourage the young ladies in here to call the police on you.”

“Ntk,” he scoffed with an eye roll.  She had a point, but that wasn’t what was stopping him.  Her body language was on the offensive; almost as if challenging him to test her resolve.

“Besides, I need to shower if I’m not going to smell like chlorine and copper for the rest of the day.  Go on, toddle off back home,” she motioned with her hands.  She closed the door behind her and cut off Sherlock.

His nostrils flared briefly as he spun on his heel out of the building.  She was infuriating – and interesting.  He strode quickly back to Baker Street with his mind buzzing.  Lestrade should be coming by shortly to drop off the copy of the case file.  She was obviously tenacious and fit.  There was a huge amount of dedication given to certain aspects in her life.  Music was beyond influential to the way that she approached her day.  She was always listening to music.  Always.  Humming or drumming or miming fingerings on her hands: there was always something.  
Her laptop was still sitting at the foot of John’s chair.  _I could break into it.  It couldn’t possibly be that difficult_.  For having observed so much, (or little depending on how you looked at it,) he still didn’t know enough about her.

Shannon closed the door and found the locker room barren.  _That’s all I would need at this point: going on a roller coaster ride and then sending your host to jail.  
_ She dropped her bag off in front of her shower stall and turned the water to warm.  The clips and tie in her hair were undone and the stringy, shoulder-length hair hung lifelessly.  She wriggled out of her suit with practiced ease and let the warm water wash over her.  Upon inspection, she was going to have to stop at a shop.  She recalled seeing a Tesco or something of the like on Melcombe Place.  It wasn’t that far away.  She could take a small detour as a scenic route.  She was going to need to buy more wash and another box of granola bars, as well as some odds and ends.  If she’s going to be staying here, she was going to contribute.  She had inferred from Mrs. Hudson’s tone and expression that Mycroft had assumed she would be here for the long hall.  She scrubbed her hair and rinsed it thoroughly, letting the pulsating water run over her achy shoulders.  She heard the door open and she opened her eyes.  She heard nothing.  Not a single footstep.  Curious, she popped her head out from behind the curtain and saw nothing.  She peered at her bag and noticed that her towel looked like it had been moved.  She grabbed the bag up and hung it on the hook inside.  She finished washing up and towel dried quickly.  She dug through her bag and found a small note inside: ‘ _How interesting.’_ She flipped the small piece of cardstock over.  It was pristine.  The ink was low quality, and the cardstock had a partial watermark upon inspection closer to the light.  She carefully tucked the paper back into her bag and withdrew out a pair of sweats and another plain Hanes v-neck.  She rolled her pant legs up above her calf and slipped on her grey zip-up.  She pulled out her phone and turned it on.

 

_Dr. Watson:_

_Someone was in my bag._   
_Was it either of you?_   
_It’s Shannon Byrns, by the way._

She tied her trainers, shouldered her bag and went in search of the shop.  So many people hated London because it was always so grey.  Other people loved it because of its history.  She loved it for not being Boston.

 

He unlocked the door to 221B Baker Street and quickly climbed the steps to fine Greg and John sitting at the table.  John’s eyes lit up as he saw the detective unrolling his sleeves.  “Satisfied?”

Lestrade looked over to Sherlock, “I’ve been trying to bribe John into sending me those pictures and video of you.  He’s driving a hard bargain.”

“That’s because you’d send them out to everyone and John has the ability to show a little bit more restraint than you,” he sneered.  John and Lestrade chuckled.  Sherlock walked over to the file folder on the table, sat at the available seat and began to skim through it.  The crime scene photographs were gruesome.  It wasn’t only execution style – it was a bloodbath.

Lestrade shook his head solemnly, “I didn’t look through it completely – it’s messy in there.  The witness testimony is wrenching.  So read it when you want to be put into a sour mood.  I don’t know what you’re going to find in there, Sherlock.”

“Answers,” he said coolly.  “You see.  You see and yet you don’t observe.”

“Fine,” Lestrade folded his arms across his chest, “What did you observe about Miss Byrns today?”

John looked to his friend and blew on his tea.  Sherlock kept scanning the pages of the file and spoke quietly, “She’s extremely diligent and disciplined.  Judging by the indentation on her lip I can only assume that she’s spent countless hours playing –“

“She plays the trumpet,” John interjects rapidly.  Lestrade nods.

“ –and after watching her swim thirty-six lengths in the pool, her endurance is astounding.  She has amazing control of her physicality in the matter that she fights to control her motor functions.  She has a slightly higher lung capacity than most females, which is also a contributing factor to her swimming and playing.  Along with those things, she is astoundingly bright.”

John smiled, “I told you.  A nine at least.”

Lestrade’s brain switched off from the case to being a man, “Wait, a nine?  Is she drop-dead gorgeous, too?”

“Of course not, Lestrade, don’t be so shallow,” Sherlock reprimanded.  John howled in delight.  Lestrade looked bewildered.  “John and I agreed some time ago that I wouldn’t leave the flat for cases that were deemed a six or below on difficulty.  It’s a waste of my talents.”

John piped up, “He sent me to pick her up from the airport.  After talking to her for three minutes, I knew Sherlock had made an incorrect assumption.”

There was the eye roll.  Sherlock strode over to the coffee table to pick up his violin and plucked at its strings to judge whether it was in tune.  He carefully adjusted its pegs and began to play something pizzicato considering his bow was on the other side of the room.  “Sorry, John.  I was bored.  It won’t happen again,” he scoffed.

John’s mobile beeped and his smile faded as he read the text message.  He looked to Sherlock sharply, “Did you rummage through her bag?”

“What?”

“You heard me; did you go through her bag?”

“Of course not.  She and I conversed after she got out of the pool, she headed to the locker room, and I came back here because I knew Lestrade was due,” he eyed John warily.

_Shannon:_

_No.  It wasn’t either of us.  
You should come back if you feel unnerved._

 

“How did you get her number?” Lestrade asked with a sly grin.  “Are you trying to get an in with the American?”

 

_Doctor Watson:_

_I can handle myself, thank you.  
I’m going to the shop.  I’ll have some groceries._

John objected, “Now, Greg, that’s enough.  She’s a respectable young woman.  And she’s smart and funny, and she put Sherlock in a loss for words.”

Sherlock scowled.

“She stole my mobile in the car and put her number in,” he confessed.

Greg crossed his leg, ankle to knee, and stretched his arms behind his head, “Oh, I’d quite like to meet her.”

“Obviously.”

“What I find amusing,” Lestrade antagonized, “Is that John has her number, and you don’t.”

Calculating eyes looked over the officer, “Oh really.”  John was quite chuffed with himself.  “Well then,” he said with no emotion, “It would then surprise you that while Shannon and I were conversing, she slipped this piece of paper into my right jacket pocket that has her number on it; considering the way the numbers are grouped and there’s the US international digit as a prefix, with a note saying _‘Be nice’_ on it, yes?”  He took the crumpled up paper out of his pocket and held it between two fingers.

Lestrade was amazed, “But – how…how did you know…”

“She was obvious about it.  Which makes more sense now given that she’s texted John asking if either of us went through her bag, indicative that she believes that she was followed back in Boston and that her shadow has followed her here,” he ranted speedily.  “Anything else?”

John spoke up, “Sometimes, Sherlock, you truly need smacked.”  Sherlock smirked and resumed plucking the strings on his violin. 


	6. Jauntily We Three

Shannon popped into the Tesco and grabbed a basket.  Firstly, toiletries – she knew she didn’t bring enough with her.  A new razor would be nice.  Box of granola bars, some batteries, a notepad, some pens…food.  She should buy more food.  She casually walked up and down the aisles looking over the brands that she wasn’t necessarily used to seeing at home.  In truth, she was stalling because she had a mild suspicion that she had been followed.  She thought she had seen a shadow last night when she had walked to the pub ahead of the Baker Street boys and today wasn’t coincidental.  If she was being followed, a store was a decent enough place to know for sure.

She intentionally moved herself into inner aisles so that it had to be obvious that she was being watched.  She idly read and re-read ingredients on packaging and noticed a hooded man, about 6’2” coming down the aisle.  She grabbed the bag of cookies, and meandered lazily into the next aisle.  She took a look at her basket, ripped open the small bag that had the habañeros she had picked out in the produce section and walked about halfway down the aisle.  Another man in a ball cap was closing in on her right, and the hooded man walked around the same way she did on her left.  She placed the basket on the floor, kneeling to look at the small bottle of cayenne powder.  With subtle movements, she placed the jar in her basket, opening it quickly and breaking the habanero peppers open, covering her hands.  She quickly unzipped her hoodie and stood up, staring cautiously at the two men around her.  “Can I help you?” she asked, deftly hiding the cayenne in her hand.

The capped man snarled, “You should never have come here.  Our boss wants to send you a warning.”

“Oh, is that so?” she grimaced, feeling the heat from the pepper sting a small knick she had on her hand.

“Yeah,” he replied, his smile repulsing her, “And he said we can do whatever we want with ya.”

“You don’t look so bad naked,” the hooded man seethed, “I’m sure we could do something with that.  So come quietly, and it won’t be so bad.”

Shannon unscrewed the lid from the pepper jar and groaned, “I’d rather not, thanks, you’re not my type.”

“Cheeky,” leered the capped man, “I love it.”

The hooded man took a step towards her to grab her and she flung the contents from the now open jar at his face, having succeeded at getting the hot powder into his eyes.  His groans of distress as he rubbed his eyes were a welcome indication that he would be down for a moment.  She turned her focus to the other man who was now charging at her.  She was grabbed around her midsection and lifted off the ground.  She took her hands and ran them all over his face, trying her best to focus on his eyes and mouth.  Satisfied with what she’s attempted to do, she slammed her elbow down hard onto his shoulder blade while simultaneously lifting her knee into his gut.  The unknown man grunted in pain and tried to hold on to her.  She wrapped her arms around his neck in an attempt to wriggle free and choke him as he punched into her side.  A small child stood at the end of the aisle, watching.  He looked to his left, “Mom?”  The capped man took a cheap shot to her face.  Everything to her was fluid and natural – as if being attacked was completely normal.  She let her body take care of her problems before her mind could catch up.  It was rather calming.

Shannon looked to the man writhing on the floor as he was beginning to come round.  His eyes were devilishly bloodshot and he kept fighting back tears.  She jumped free from her current attacker as he was now beginning to feel the burn from the habañero oils.  He yelled in agony and fell to the floor.  She torqued her kick to his solar plexus to hopefully break a rib.  Her ankle was grabbed and she tripped, falling hard to the floor.  She was dragged closer to the hoodied man through the cayenne powder.  Once she was close enough she kicked the man in the face and tried to crawl away.  Deemed Hoodie, he grabbed her leg and landed albeit a marvelous punch to the side of her knee where she howled in pain.  As she tried to stand he bit her leg and she yelled.  There are now mothers with their young children staring at the spectacle that was unfolding in the spice aisle.  Two of Scotland Yard’s finest walked in and were quickly knocked unconscious by an unseen third man.  Cap-Boy stood up, sputtering and moved towards the other end of the aisle.  Shannon repeatedly kicked Hoodie, who was clutching her leg and struck him in the face with her right hand, successfully knocking him unconscious.  She rapidly unsheathed herself from her hoodie and used it to create a makeshift set of handcuffs that had Hoodie tied to the shelves.

As she turned to look at the other man, she saw him standing six feet or so from her, holding the small boy in front of him.  She heaved a heavy sigh and limped forward.  “Stop right there, princess, or I will break his neck.”  The child’s mother screamed at the other end and burst into tears.  “You should never have left home.  Things are going to be so much worse for you now.”

She fell onto the shelving having lost her balance, and grabbed the small box cutter that an employee had thankfully left behind.  “I just want to forget,” she sighed.  “I just want my brother back.”  And there: she saw the mother holding back a little girl that was red from crying and screaming for her brother.  She saw reflected in that little girl everything that had caused her to go numb after Matt had died: the confusion, the rage, the pain, the guilt – everything.  She unsheathed the small blade with a quick click and righted herself.  “But most of all, I want you to rot in hell.”

“Good luck, princess,” he sneered.  Before he could notice, she had torqued her hips offset just enough that it could accelerate her torso, and in turn her arm, to throw that small box cutter as hard and transiently as possible.  He reeled backward and Shannon ran forward, grabbed the small child, tossed him out of harm’s way, and tackled Cap-Boy to the floor, wrapping her legs around his neck.  She squeezed tighter as he clawed vigorously at her until he went limp, and he was unconscious.  She let go and pushed herself away quickly.  The little boy stood up and ran to his mother, sobbing.  She bellowed much like a wounded animal and began to fight back the tears.  She just kept yelling over and over as three more policemen made their way into the store and found the scene before them.

 

Lestrade’s phone rang.  “Excuse me,” he stated, standing up and going out onto the landing.  Sally Donovan was on the other end.

John looked over to Sherlock, “She’s been gone a while, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps.”

“That was Donovan,” Lestrade said rapidly, “There was a woman assaulted by two or three men over at the Tesco on Melcombe Place.”

“Oh my God,” John whispered.

Sherlock stood up and replaced his violin on the table, “Is she alright?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lestrade replied, putting his phone away, “It’s the two guys they apprehended that aren’t so lucky.”

The three boys got into Lestrade’s car and drove away to the scene.

 

* * *

 

 

Shannon was still sitting on the floor in the aisle, yelling at the officer to go and check on the boy to make sure he was alright.  Hoodie and Cap-Boy were in genuine handcuffs, and being moved out to a medic.  Sherlock stopped mid step and looked at the carnage wrought on the two assailants.  _Broken jaw, broken nose, possible broken ribs, fractured eye socket, burns to the face, stab wound; severe bruising, broken wrist_.  These men were a map; a wonderful example of the damage the human body can inflict.  He swiftly caught up with DI Lestrade and John to find them gawking over the mess and the woman on the floor.  She had her arm draped over her propped up knee and kept batting away the medic trying to administer first aid.

“Oh, thank God!,” Sherlock exclaimed vehemently.  Shannon glanced up and smirked at his antics, “Doctor, it’s so wonderful that we found you in time. Please, tend to your patient!”  he said as he pushed John through the crowd of officers. 

Donovan grimaced, “What’s the Freak doing here?  I don’t really know why we were called down here.”

“Because,” Shannon winced as she stood up, “They thought I had killed Hoodie on first inspection – but he was just really, really out.”

John knelt down beside her to look at the gash on her exposed right leg.  He gingerly made his way around the wound, “Shannon, this is a bite mark.  Did they seriously bite you?”

“Only the one,” she said staring down.  “The other one took a couple of shots at my side.  I’ll be fine.”

“Your face is bleeding; I’ll have to look at that.”

Sherlock looked her over quickly and looked at everything around them.  There was her grocery basket, largely unscathed, and powder all over the floor with crushed peppers strewn everywhere.

“Oh, you’re clever,” he murmured quietly.  She must have heard him, because she caught his eyes and gave a knowing smirk.

“I was MacGyver in a previous life,” she chortled.  The medic handed John some antiseptic and she hissed loudly at its application.

“MacGyver?” Sherlock pondered aloud.

Lestrade looked to him dumbstruck, “Seriously? You don’t know who MacGyver is?” Donovan rolled her eyes.  “He was a guy on a show that could make a bomb out of anything, like a paperclip and some foil on the fly all the time!  It’s a great show…that actor – oh what was his name…”

“Richard Dean Anderson,” Shannon hissed.

“Yeah,” Lestrade said with a smile, “Hello there, Detective Inspector Lestrade.  Might I say you are, well, pretty amazing.”

“Shannon Byrns,” she said shaking his hand, “And so I’ve been told.”

“Wait – you’re…”

“Yes, Lestrade,” Sherlock declared, throwing his hands in the air, “Congratulations. But can’t you see what’s just happened here?”

“Probably not,” Shannon chimed in; still hissing as John applied a pressure dressing.

Thoroughly annoyed, “She’s got habañero oil on her hands, that’s why the men’s faces are swollen and red – they’re reacting to having it in their eyes.  There’s cayenne all over the floor and notice that she’s relatively unharmed!”  He walked past her and turned around to face everyone, “Anyone other than the American want to tell me something?”

Lestrade shifted his weight to the other foot, “I’ll be going to interrogate the assailants, and I’m going to want to take a statement from you, Miss Byrns.”

She scowled, “One of your rookies has my statement.  Though he did forget to ask a few pertinent questions.  I had to fill in the gaps.”

John stood up and examined her face lightly, “Oh, Lestrade, did we forget to mention that she and Sherlock are quite alike?”  Her left cheek had a nice split on it, and her nose had some dried blood on it.  “I don’t think you’ve broken anything, but you should have an x-ray of that hand,” he asserted, “You split open two of your knuckles.  Flex your hands for me.”

Sherlock watched as John took care of her.  Her demeanor was relaxed and attentive.  She flexed and didn’t wince at any pain and her heart rate didn’t jump.  She more than likely didn’t break her hand.

Sergeant Donovan was thoroughly disgusted with all of this.  “This isn’t a playground, it’s a crime scene.  Now if you lot want to go off and have some weird, kinky fun do it on someone else’s time.  It’s bad enough that I have to manage around one freak.  Can’t say what will happen if I have to manage two.”

Sherlock’s eyes flinched ever so microscopically as he ignored what Donovan has said.  As he opened his mouth to quip something rude about her and Anderson, Shannon had shoved John out of the way and invaded Donovan’s space, forcing her against the shelving.  She leaned into her right ear and whispered something that none of the men around them could hear.  Embarrassment and terror flooded her face as Shannon continued to whisper.  She pulled back and stared the sergeant down.

“So help me God, you touch me again and –“  Sally whispered hoarsely.  “I work for Scotland Yard!”

“Ah,” Shannon muttered, “But I haven’t touched you.  And if you think that by throwing around where you work will do anything for you, I’m not afraid.  I wasn’t afraid of them.  I’m sure as fucking _hell_ not afraid of you.”


	7. Answer Me This

The men stood there in awe.  She never laid a hand on Donovan.  Her body language commanded respect and power.  Her command of the shifts of her personality was spectacular.  Shannon reached down and picked up her basket and strode to the front of the store to check out.

“That’s evidence!” Lestrade hollered.

“No it’s not,” she quipped back, waving him off as she went under the tape and rounded the corner.  Sherlock followed her, leaving John to deal with the Yard.

“What did she say to you, Sally?” John asked, taking off the medical gloves with a snap.

“Nothing,” she barked.

Lestrade stared at her suspiciously, “Are you sure?”

“Nothing,” she repeated.

John saw Shannon’s zip-up on the ground.  “Is this evidence, too?”

“Yes,” Anderson grumbled walking under the tape, “Don’t touch it!”

John pouted and left to go in search of the other two.

Sherlock found Shannon in one of the queues, loading her items onto the belt.  “What you did back there – “

She cut him off by raising her hand, “Not now, Mr. Holmes, please.”  He noted her voice was a little hoarser than earlier.  She had been screaming.

The cashier teen looked at her as he was scanning her items, “Not sure if I’m going to get away with saying this, but that was fucking mental.”  He gave a small, tentative smile to her.  “Honestly.  You’re a machine!  If I had moves like that, no one would pick on me anymore.”

She snorted, “I was just trying to save the kid.  And just because you have moves doesn’t mean you should use them.”

He nodded, “You’re like a grandmaster sensei or something, yeah?”

“Not really,” she smiled.  “I’m just some dumb American – “ she paused reaching into her hoodie pocket that was no longer there.  “ – that just left her wallet and passport at a crime scene.”

The kid was at a loss for what to do, because if he had it his way, she could have taken the whole store with her.  Sherlock handed over his card promptly, “Here.”

“I’ll pay you back, Mr.Holmes, I promise,” she mumbled embarrassed.  He took the receipt and put it in his breast pocket.

“Fine,” he replied kindly as they looped around back toward the spice aisle to collect John.  Before they could get there, the mother and her two children blocked their path.

Painfully and lacking grace, she knelt down to the floor to talk to the young boy, “Are you alright?  I didn’t mean to hurt you when I grabbed you.”

He nodded slowly, “Yes.  Mom says you saved me.”

“I was just trying to be a superhero today, did I do okay?” she asked with a small look of concern on her face.  The mother began to cry at the mention of heroes.

The young man walked up to her and hugged her, “Just wear a mask next time so the bad guys don’t know it’s you.”  She returned the hug in kind and heard Sherlock intake air to make a comment.  She quickly jabbed him in the leg and he said nothing.

She struggled to stand back up but wanted no assistance from anyone around her, “You have a wonderful son, ma’am,” she stated calmly.  She then looked to the little girl, “You’re brother’s a hero.  He saved me today.  You should be very proud of him.”  _Sentiment –_ Sherlock thought.

At a loss for words, the mother tenderly hugged her and thanked her.  Shannon stiffened at her touch and became cold again.  She nodded awkwardly and then made her way to the spice aisle where they found John.

She dropped her bags gently to the floor and crossed the tape.  Sherlock held John back to watch her now interact with Anderson.  “That’s my bag, my wallet, and my passport.”

“Sure it is.  This is a crime scene – you just can’t come barging in here like you own the place!” Shannon pushed past him, touching his right hand.  “Oi!”

She shouldered her bag and grabbed her other articles, “Look, _mate_ , I don’t give a flying fuck who you think you are.  Your boss here obviously isn’t going to stop me; so I’m going to take my things and leave.  I’m tired.  I had a long flight yesterday.  I swam for forty-seven minutes before I got here, and I am the assault victim that landed both of the perps most likely into the hospital.  Right now, you do not want to fuck with me.  Why?  Because I’m tired.  I’m hungry.  I’m sore.  And I happen to have a wonderful revenge streak.  So lay the fuck off and do your job.”

Stunned, Anderson stammered over himself and Lestrade bit the inside of his cheek exasperated.  She spun on her heel to meet with her escorts and groceries and left the store.  John and Sherlock passed a knowing glance and smirk to each other as they walked on either side of her.  She was fun.  Once out of earshot of the police, Shannon leaned her head towards Sherlock.  “Text Lestrade.  Tell him to cover his hands in milk or sugar, and then wash them well.”

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his breast pocket with a deep laugh and did as was asked.

 

_Lestrade:_

_Soak right hand in milk._

_Then wash it._

_Don’t touch your face._

_Pepper oil._

_-SH_

Sherlock filled John in and the three of them had a small laugh over it.  When they got to Baker Street, Shannon went to wash her hands as John kindly unloaded the groceries onto the counter.  When she emerged she moved straight to the couch and propped her injured leg on the coffee table taking care to avoid Sherlock’s violin.

Sherlock broke the silence first, “What did you tell Sergeant Donovan?”

She shrugged, “I’m paraphrasing here, because it was all so in the moment,” John now stood in the doorway.  “More or less that if I had to hear name calling from her, I’d get even.  And I would start tonight.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” John asked confusedly.

She held up her hands in a jazzy fashion, flipping them back and forth.  “She reeked of a man.  Specifically Anderson, yes?”  Their faces gave her the needed confirmation, “And he wasn’t wearing gloves.  For being a crime scene man, he should have taken more care.”

John lost his composure and began to howl and Sherlock sat there in his chair with a bemused look of triumph on his face.  “Oh is she in for a rough night,” John yelled between his laughing fits.

“Subtlety; thy name is Shannon,” she smirked situating herself on the couch.  She moved the pillow to the arm of the couch so she could gingerly lay her head down.   John went into the kitchen to start making lunch.  Sherlock’s gaze met with Shannon’s and he nodded quickly as a thank you.  She nodded back and closed her eyes, “Oh you are so very quiet, Mr. Holmes.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock sat there for a long time deep in thought and in quiet.  John sat on the small chair to the right of the couch, carrying some sandwiches for the pair of them.  “Here we are.  This should help some.  Sorry my kitchen prowess couldn’t be of more use.  He’s got experiments all over the stove top.”

“Thanks, John,” she replied grabbing the turkey sandwich off the plate.

“John,” he replied softly.  “That’s the first time you’ve used my name.”

She munched quietly, “I’ve always used your name – Just never your first name alone.”  Her hands shook slightly, John saw, which was probably an after-effect of some shock.

He frowned, “What happened today?”

“I’m sure you’ll see it eventually; there was a security camera overhead, you see,” she sipped her water and set it down on the end table.  “I had a hunch that I was being followed in Boston – but I couldn’t really ever put my finger on it because everyone around me kept saying I was being paranoid pending my brother’s death.”  She rubbed the left side of her neck.  “But there’s that, then.  Oh, excuse me a second.”  She pulled out her cell phone and began to text.  “It’s rude when people text and don’t give you their full attention, but I want to do this now while I’m thinking about it.”

 

_O’Rourke:_

_Got attacked in London._

_Was being followed.  I’ll call you later today._

_Andy:_

_You owe me a hundred bucks._

_I was followed._

_Sweet battle scars._

“There,” she exclaimed, pocketing her phone and inhaling a rather large bite of sandwich.  “I’d have had multiple phone calls if I they got wind of my escapade before I had told them.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How did you do it?”  Her expression hardened.  “I meant today!  How did you manage that today?”

She blinked a few times, pondering.  “I took martial arts as a kid.  And I watched a lot of TV.”

“I don’t understand how you and Sherlock can be so alike – and yet, you seem far more human.”

She stopped him.  “He’s just as human,” she reminded, “But sometimes he forgets.  I can see it.”  Holmes’ eyes were vacant as he stared off in the distance, analyzing whatever it was that his mind fixated on.  “He’s not that different from you, John.  His brain is just geared differently.”

“How can you possibly know that?” John asked, finishing the sandwich in his hand.  “You’ve only been here for a day.”

She tentatively grabbed her leg and helped ease it to the floor, “You can learn a lot in a day, John.  Sometimes, it’s all that you’ll need.  Everything else noted after that is just reinforcement of your assumptions.”

“I can give you something for the pain, if you’d like,” John soothed, patting her arm.  “Just for the discomfort.”

“I’ll be fine,” she whispered as she lifted her legs to the couch and sprawled.  “I just need to sleep.  My normal schedule is off.  I’m usually five hours behind you.  This time zone jump is exhausting.  Thank you for lunch.”  She nuzzled into the pillow.

“I’ll be off then; I have some errands to do.  You sure you’ll be alright?  I have work tomorrow and won’t be around much.”

“I’ll be fine.  I can always beat the next person that invades my personal space.  Just – could you hand me my mp3 player?  It’s in my bag.”

John did as he was asked and handed the device over to her.  She shuffled through her playlists and settled on ‘Green’.  She set her ear buds and sighed as the music filled her head.  She barely noticed as John left.  She closed her eyes as the glimmering rays of the sun peeked through the window.  They were warm and comforting when they weren’t hiding behind the clouds.  She was drowsy.  Her adrenaline levels were settling back to normal.  It was so much warmer now and her leg wasn’t giving her grief.  She could just nod off, right here.

Time had passed when Sherlock refocused into reality.  A repetitive clicking sound compelled him to look around for its source.  He was interested.  His flat seldom made sounds – and this was different.  He strolled around the room and listened carefully to the intermittent chattering.  _Oh, chattering…_ He turned around and saw Shannon sleeping soundly on the couch with her mp3 player and curled into a ball.  She was shivering.  _Shivering and chattering teeth – she must be cold_.  “It’s not surprising,” he breathed, “It’s quite normal for the human body to feel cold after a state of shock due to the dropping levels of adrenaline from the adrenal gland.”  He turned to look at her, defeated, “But none of this impresses you because you’re asleep.  That’s what I do; I impress people.”

He quietly walked to John’s chair and took the blanket off of the back.  Silently, he draped it over her frame and heard his phone go off.

_Sherlock:_

_How’s the case going, brother?_

_I see you’ve done well to get her in the Yard’s light._

_-MH_

_Mrycroft:_

_If anything, it’s laying the groundwork to completely  
dismiss her involvement as a coconspirator._

_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_Defensive._

_-MH_

_Holmes: (from Lestrade)_

_You should come by my office._  
You’re going to want to see this.  
  


Sherlock without hesitation left the flat and grabbed his coat.  He sent out a quick text to his partner.

_John:_

_Come to Lestrade’s office._

_Convenient or not._

_-SH_


	8. I Wander and Am Lost

Outside he hailed a taxi and made his way to Scotland Yard.  John read his text message and sighed with frustration.  He paid the cashier for the dry cleaning and went out to hail a taxi.  Three hours undisturbed.  That was almost a record this week.  John roughly hopped into the cab and gave the driver the address.  He carefully laid the garment bag across his lap and received a call from his sister.

“John! How’re you doing?”

“Better.  Loads better.  Thanks.  What’s up?  Is everything okay?”

“Yeah – I’ve been meaning to ask you…I found a blog.  Is this yours?”

John leaned his head back on the rest; “Yes, it is.”

“YES!” she screamed, “YOU ALL OWE ME MONEY!  Thanks, love!”  Click.

He eyed his phone in befuddlement, “Okay…”

“Everything alright?” the cabbie asked.

“Yeah.  I think so.  Family.  Weird.”

He laughed heartily, “Oh yes, they only kind!”

Upon arrival, John paid the cabbie and swung the garment over his shoulder and headed upstairs.  This better be good; he still had a few other places to go before work tomorrow.  The good doctor walked into Lestrade’s office and draped the clothing over the back of the chair to see Sherlock staring out the window.

“Good.  Now you’re both here.  I have the footage from earlier today at the Tesco.  You might want to see this, considering that she’s your guest.”  He clicked on the file to open it.  “I’ve already got my suspicions – but I want to know what you think.”  He pressed play and three video feeds appeared on the screen.  One facing the entrance, one down the aisle, and one focused on the back stock room door.  “These three feeds are all that we have so far.  We’re getting the rest of them later tonight.”

John pointed at the feed of the front door, “There she is.  Look – there’s the hoodie guy.”

“She knows she’s been followed.  Look,” Sherlock paused the feed, “she’s barely turned her head down and back.  If she looks hard enough, she’d have been able to see them the entire way there.  She purposely went to the store.”  Lestrade started it again.

They noticed two men stick towards the front of the store, idly checking out menial items as did two men do the same toward the back.  They watched as she casually weaved in and out of the aisles, grabbing groceries that she needed.  Lestrade pointed, “That makes sense to go to the peppers first then.  If she was that sure…why didn’t she call either of you?  Or us, for Christ’s sake.”

John squinted, “She made mention earlier that she wasn’t one hundred percent sure that she had stalkers.  Everyone in Boston told her that she was paranoid because of her brother’s death.”

“There!” Sherlock exclaimed touching the screen.  “There, freeze it!”  One of the men at the back rolled his sleeve up for a moment.  There was a tattoo.  The resolution isn’t that great. “ I’m sure that you can have that cleaned up.”  Lestrade noted the time and feed on the tablet and pressed play.  “Six against one.  Those odds obviously weren’t of any help.”

John grumbled, “What kind of ass sends six grown men after one girl?  And why?  Desperation?”

“Possibly,” Lestrade shrugged, “But you need to see this.”

Sherlock scrutinized the footage from the aisle as he watched Shannon kneel down and situate an open bottle of cayenne pepper into her sleeve after breaking the raw peppers open on her hands.  There’s a mild and quick dialogue between them and suddenly action explodes.  The hooded man falls to the floor clawing at his face and she is picked up by the other man.  The two men in the back move quickly into the stock room out of sight.  Her movements are fluid and precise.  She obviously had some sort of training in her life.  He should ask her to spar.  He was getting rusty.  _Why would I think about that?  I could always just ask John.  He’s a soldier.  But that’s martial arts, she’s well versed.  It would be intelligent to learn from her in the event of a fight.  I have no reason to defend my actions.  I need to get that hypothermia trial off of her._   The other feed shows the two men in the front take out the officers and beat a hasty retreat.

John looked over to him to gauge his emotions to Shannon utterly beating the snot out of the guys who were attacking her.  He could readily see that Sherlock’s mind was trying to process more than the video at hand and made a mental note to ask him about it later. John winced in sympathy as he saw Shannon get punched in the knee and be bitten.  Her face is bloody and she limps as she stands up.  The little boy has been snatched up and Sherlock focuses acutely on her face.  Her body could fool anyone – it appeared defeated.  Her face, however, is expressing so much more.  Try as she might, her face is calculating and warm.  This child was now her sole reason to survive.  This is no doubt a wonderful quality to have as a teacher.  And then he sees it – she makes a connection to something out of shot.  He thinks back: there was a little girl.  _History won’t repeat itself._

Lestrade leans back as Shannon’s whips the box cutter at the assailant and runs forward, throwing the child and tackling the adult.  “What did she throw?” John queried.

“Box cutter,” the inspector replies, “And she wailed that thing.  The blade broke off when she got him by the neck.  They had problems getting it out at the scene.”

_Sherlock:_

_You have a timeline now.  She is to be back home in six days._

_Best be quick and stop fooling around._

_-MH_

“Hell,” John breathed, “that was amazing – and terrifying.  She was like a real life Bruce Lee.”  Sherlock pocketed his mobile, clasped his hands behind his back and left without saying a word.  Lestrade looked up, bewildered.  “He’s been doing that since she got here, don’t take it personally.”

“He’s not going to tell me, is he?”

“Maybe not right now, I guess work on that tattoo and he’s going to work on her,” he said thoughtfully.  “She’s not really said anything about the case so far.”

By the time John gathered his things and made is way out, Sherlock was long gone.  “Typical.  Taxi!” he yelled waving his hand in the air.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock stomped up the stairs, startling Mrs. Hudson, “Is everything alright, dear?  Did something happen?”

“No, Mrs. Hudson,” he said with a thin frown, “It’s not.  I have a deadline to figure out Miss Byrns’ case.  I don’t wish to be disturbed, if you’d please.”

The kind landlady didn’t take offense; Sherlock was only being himself – mood swings and all.  “I’ll bring up some supper later, then.”  She turned back around and walked into her flat.

He finished stomping up the stairs and found her in the same spot, only now she was sleeping on her outstretched arm.  Her headphones had fallen out at some point and he could hear faintly some jazz tune playing.  He was tight-lipped with a slight frown.  He cautiously removed the blanket and gingerly touched her wrist and felt for her pulse.  Her heart rate was gorgeously slow and steady.  He could nearly feel all four chambers of her heart echoing through her veins.  With just as much caution, he released her and sat in the chair beside her, but not before quickly skimming through her audio device.  He quietly murmured something into her ear and then sat back.  “Miss Byrns,” he spoke sternly, “Miss Byrns, wake up.”  Her lids shot open to reveal blank eyes.  Sherlock crossed his leg.  “We need to have a discussion.”

“Fine, Mr. Holmes,” she mumbled groggily.  She carefully sat upright, rubbing the red mark from sleeping on her face and shaking her arm out.  She yawned sloppily and attempted to cover her mouth.  “I didn’t mean to doze so long,” she apologized, looking him over, “And you must not have cared because you left at some point.”  She massaged her knee and stared over at him and then fished out the note from earlier, handing it to him.

“This was in my bag when I finished showering this morning.  I couldn’t’ find anything remarkable about the ink – it’s from a generic ballpoint pen.  But the paper does have part of a watermark.”

Sherlock examined it quickly and set it on the end table.  “It’s nothing that an average consumer couldn’t’ get their hands on.  It’s remarkably neat.  I’ll be doing a fiber analysis of it later.”  He steepled his hands against his lips, “You and I need to discuss that case file, Miss Byrns.”

She continued to massage her knee, “Alright, then.  Ask away.  But you do then know that I have blips in my memory that are fuzzy.  No one’s really sure why – and I can’t remember.”

His eyes looked cruel.  The wheels were spinning with an ungodly speed, “Tell me what you remember.  Now.”

She frowned and hardened her features, “I remember things out of order.”  Her body language squared off.  She was making herself harder to read.  “I don’t know why.  It doesn’t make sense,” she spat, her tone sharp.

“You need to think.  What did you see?” he growled.

“I can’t be sure – there are inconsistencies that don’t line up, Mr. Holmes.  Things that I should know but can’t remember.” She was getting agitated.

“Focus, Miss Byrnes, prove to me that you’re as unique as everyone seems to believe that you are,” he growled.  His voice dropped and his words stung.  His eyes were wild and manic.

“I told you, I can’t remember!” she snapped, raising her voice.  “One minute I’m standing on the street behind O’Rourke and then I’m in my brother’s house but the pictures are wrong!”

“Oh please, and you think you’re smarter than all this?  Pathetic!” he seethed.  “You may as well have been the assassin based on the store footage I witnessed.  You’re obviously in league with them.  It’s you – you indirectly killed Matthew.”

Her expressions became placid, her eyes darkened, and her voice icy.  “Don’t you dare say his name, you bastard.”  She stood up and glowered down at him.  Sherlock rose slowly, clasping his arms behind her as he leisurely paced before here with the coffee table separating them.

 “Is that sentiment?  Please,” he sneered.  “Don’t coddle yourself.  It doesn’t suit you.  You never cared about him.  What was in it for you?”

“Mr. Holmes, enough,” she snarled.

“WHAT DID YOU SEE, MISS BYRNS?  TELL ME!” he bellowed.  If looks could kill they both would assuredly be dead.

Shannon’s mind raced.  Images from that day flashed before her eyes at Mach speed and her eyes skittered around her head.  Sherlock gazed intently, “That’s it.  What did you see?  Not what you observed.  Tell me what you see, Miss Byrns.”

She knew he was fishing for something.  There had to be something her mind had locked away that was key to opening up a new door to the case.  The problem was that she had gone over those images and memories so thoroughly, her mind felt like it was snapping.   Everything was moving so quickly and everything was out of place and out of order.  The pictures.  They were wrong.  “I can touch it –“ she groaned with her arm outstretched.

He stopped and stared at her, handing her his violin off the table, “What do you see?” he shouted.  At the moment, John walked up the stairwell briskly having heard shouting and Sherlock silenced him with a swift flash of his hand.  “Come now, Miss Byrns, describe it.”  His voice was growing more firm – as if coaxing her.  John was appalled.  He looked around the room and saw it was just as they had left it.  Shannon’s eyes were becoming more and more vacant while her face began to get more animated.

John caught Sherlock’s gaze and mouthed in silence, “ _Did you hypnotize her?_ ”  Sherlock shrugged casually and scrunched his face.

“ _Maybe.”_

“The colors – it’s in the colors,” she whispered hoarsely reaching out with her other hand.  Sherlock carefully removed violin from her grip and motioned for John to move quietly around the room.

She reached down and grabbed her mp3 player and looked at the names of her playlists.  He looked for to the number of times played.  The purple labeled list was played the least.  He looked at her face, now contorting into anguish.  “What color do you see, Miss Byrns?” he pried more reserved.  “It’s okay, I’m here to help you.”

“No,” she choked, “No one’s supposed to know.”  She shifted her weight, exhausted.  Staring off into the distance, her cheeks flushed.

“We know, but you’re supposed to tell us,” Sherlock guided.  He was so close.  He was so close to knowing what button to push to try and get that breakthrough.  “Please, Miss Byrns, please.”

John’s breath hitched in his throat.  She took a slow, deep breath and sniffled, “I can’t.”  Her face was an open book: she was heartbroken.  “There’s a key.  I need your name.”

Sherlock growled loudly, violent throwing his hands in the air before setting them to his waist.  “Sherlock,” John warned.

“No!”  She screamed.  “NO!  NO!  NO!  NO!  YOU CAN’T KNOW!  You’re not allowed to know!”

“Damn it, John!” Sherlock hollered.  “Miss Byrns,” he raised his voice over her yelling, “Miss Byrns!  I’m going to count from one to three!”  Mrs. Hudson came flying up the stairs to see what was wrong.  John instinctively put his arm out to keep her behind him in the event that this went horribly wrong.  “When I get to three, you will wake up and feel calm.  One – Two – Three!”

Shannon stopped screaming and looked around, wide eyed.  Sherlock’s chest heaved under his black shirt.  His fingertips were digging lightly into his waist as he tried to think.  Had he been yelling at her?  She felt dizzy.  Her legs felt heavy.

“No!” Sherlock lunged forward and caught her as she fell unconscious.  “John!”  Instantly the doctor was at her side, helping to ease her onto the couch.  Mrs. Hudson ran into the kitchen to get a cool, wet flannel. 


	9. Mighty Though Lowly

John took her pulse and stared at his watch.  “God damn you, Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered furiously.  Sherlock was holding her head up until the pillow was settled behind her.  “The next time you feel like trying to be clever with her life, don’t!”

John saw the immediate recoil as the taller man contemplated his actions in his friend’s eyes.  He was confused and slightly embarrassed that John had to chastise him.  Mrs. Hudson emerged making a fuss for them to get out of her way.  She gently dabbed the cloth against her face, calling her name lovingly.  “There you are, dear,” she whispered, relieved.  “You gave the boys and me a fright!”

Shannon looked into the eyes of Mrs. Hudson, then John, and finally looking over to see Sherlock.  She sighed.  “Sorry about that.”

John pouted, “None of this would have happened had you not hypnotized her!” 

Mrs. Hudson stared up at Sherlock, “Sherlock Holmes, how could you do such a thing?  For shame!”

His eyes reflected hurt back onto his peers.  He was taken aback.  Shannon spoke up first, “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.”  Mrs. Hudson and John looked to her, mouth agape.  “Honestly, I was hoping you would get in there.  I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out for you.”  She gave a weak smile.

The corners of his mouth upturned slightly before it returned to a tight frown.  She stretched her arms forward and leaned up onto her knees.  She looked to her watch.  “It’s only four in the afternoon.  Talk about a productive vacation.  Excuse me a moment,” she laughed and hobbled down the stairs to her room.

Mrs. Hudson looked to her boys, “Now I don’t know what the two of you are up to,” she added a wagging finger, “But you two are going to be gentlemen while she’s here!”

“Mrs. Hudson, do stop your nagging,” Sherlock groaned , “It won’t help any.” 

Shannon walked up the stairs with a little more ease.  She had changed into a pair of dark jeans and had a reinforced knee brace wrapped around her pant leg.  “I knew this would be handy again eventually,” she smirked tapping on the metal supports.  “I busted my knee up pretty bad my first year at Uni.”

She casually walked into the kitchen and grabbed the bag of essentials and moved them to the doorway to the landing.  “Please don’t gawk,” she chided, “That does nothing to impress me.”

“Shannon,” John pleaded, “He hypnotized you!”

“I’m aware, John,” she quipped, “It’s something I hadn’t tried yet – I can’t necessarily perform it on myself without there being a severe chance of nasty consequences.  I just didn’t think it would take so long for you to catch on, Mr. Holmes.”

“Yes, well, I’ve only been on the case for a day,” he apologized.

Shannon moved over to John’s chair near the fireplace and sat with her leg draped over the side; snatching up her laptop and booting it up.  She shimmied and fished a flash drive from one of her front pockets.  She plugged it into one of the USB ports and hummed absent-mindedly to herself.

“Shannon, are you alright?” Mrs. Hudson asked quickly.

“Oh, I’m sure I will be eventually,” she answered without looking up, “I just have to get used to being five hours ahead.”  She typed a few lines of text and dragged her fingers expertly across the track pad. 

Sherlock looked to her.  She was _comfortable_ to say the least.  Her long leg, though bandaged and marred by that brace, forced his gaze over her torso to her squared shoulders; her long neck and face.  _What are you doing?_ He found himself asking that a lot as of late.  She’d only been in the country for twenty-nine hours.  He was disgusted with himself.  _You don’t concern yourself in these matters._   Her hands seemed massive as they danced on the keyboard; and yet at the same time they were in no means disproportionate to the rest of her.  _Those expert hands: deliberate in their every movement.  That’s enough, Sherlock Holmes, quite enough._   Shannon looked over and caught his gaze briefly before he shifted his hands to his sides.

“Here,” she tossed the USB drive at him, “Homework.  That’s everything that I have on the case file as well as a few goodies I threw on there.”

He twiddled it between his fingers, “I’m going to ask you to undergo hypnosis again.”

“Of course,” she replied coolly, “I wouldn’t expect anything less than your best.”

John was appalled, “After all of that, and you two are going to sit here and idly chit-chat!”

“Blog about it, John,” Shannon barked; her tone light.  A smile splayed across her face.  “Maybe your readers’ comments will comfort you.”

A snort came from across the room.  Mrs. Hudson, alarmed, looked to her right, “Sherlock Holmes, did you just snort?”

The devilish grin gracing his features was enough of an answer.  Sherlock moved to the table and booted up his laptop.  He began going over the files she had given him.  A file named “ _Treats_ ” was the last item on the drive.  He clicked on it first and was prompted for a passcode.  Sherlock looked over the top of his screen to see she was smirking.  His voice oozed, “Don’t I get a hint?” 

“Pshhh – no.  That’s cheating,” Shannon sniggered.  She glanced quickly over to him and moved back to her own screen.  Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs to start preparing dinner.

John sat on the couch, alone, watching the electricity bounce back and forth between the other two bodies in the room.  “Are – are you two – flirting?” he stammered.

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock guffawed.

“Really, John,” Shannon responded not looking over at him, “Don’t you know anything about flirting?”

Baffled, confused, and somewhat horrified, John stood up and made a small circle.  “I – I’m going for a walk.”

“Enjoy,” she smiled sweetly.  Now only she and Sherlock remained and the façade fell.  He moved to his chair and she sat upright to speak with him.  They both set their laptops next to their feet and leaned on their elbows.  “Right, that was annoying.”

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, “Quite.  You didn’t honestly know that I was going to hypnotize you.”

“Are you so sure?” she countered offering her wrist to him. 

He rested his long fingers across the taut skin there.  Her heartbeat was even and her facial features gave no indication to deception.  But she has great command of her body and her senses.  The clarity in her eyes is evidence enough that she was telling the truth.

“Mr. Holmes, I can assure you that I will not lie to you; it wouldn’t dignify either of us.  You and I can sit here and nit-pick over our body language.  Or, I can extend to you a small banner of trust and hope that you’re willing to hold up your end of it.”

“Agreed,” he tightens his lips together.  “I’d like to discuss your case now.”  She nodded in agreement.

“We don’t need _quid pro quo_ today.”

“I recorded our session,” he motions up to the mantle, “You’re more than welcome to watch it later.  Now,” he paused eyeing her down, “You told me that you don’t remember things in order.  Do you know why?”

She shook her head as she leaned back into the chair.  “I’ve been trying to figure out why.  I had a few theories, but ultimately I had logically narrowed it down: I’ve suffered a minor amnesiac fracture from shock and depression – or I have been tampered with.”

“Good.  Obviously, you knew that I would see the footage from today.”

“Precisely,” she shrugged.  “You watched me swim today.  My body goes on autopilot.  I’ve only been swimming like this since Matt died.  And when I got attacked today, everything just sort of slowed down and I was able to be myself and remove myself.”

“Until you saw that young girl,” he interrupted.  “I saw it.  Your eyes changed.  You became aware.”

“Over the past month, I had rage outbursts that were directed towards DC O’Rourke. I then had no recollection of them.  When you take away everything that couldn’t be true – “

“ – you are left to ponder what shouldn’t be true.”

“John had blogged something you had said similar to that effect once.  I quite liked it.”

“Imitation is a form of flattery.”

“Are you flattered?”

“Of course not.”

“Oooh,” she cooed, raising an eyebrow.  “Good.”

He casually began to tap the arm of his chair, “Let’s begin with a strain of consciousness, if you’d please.”  Shannon closed her eyes and began to concentrate.  He looked over her peaceful face and frowned.  _Stop it, Holmes._   “Ready when you are.”

“There’s red in there – it’s a dark red, it’s quite beautiful…and I see some blue also.  That’s unique.  I don’t usually get that combination.  I see it – I’m standing there looking over the crime scene.  The pools of blood on the floor are congruous with bleeding out and there’s arterial spray to my left of the corner of the wall.”  As Shannon speaks, she draws things out and motions in the air.  “There’s blood everywhere, Mr. Homes.  I want you to imagine Mary Kelly from the Ripper murders – it’s covering everything.  Rage.  Key.  Titan key.  It’s purple.  I’m outside.  O’Rourke is screaming at me and has the scruff of my shirt.  I can’t hear him.  My ears are ringing – something loud…”

Calculating eyes scrutinize her movements to be sure they correlate with her speech.  Maybe the culprit missed something minute.  She has a pianist’s hands, he has decided – regardless if she plays often or not.  She articulates points and her ideas like a conductor does: _Indicative she’s been a director of ensembles before._   He smiles inwardly at this realization.  _Holmes, that’s enough._

“…I’m standing in the living room again.  The walls – it sounds off – purple… It shouldn’t be Orion…”  He frowns.  Her stream of consciousness was beginning to lack viable connecting points.  _It’s a blessing that this is recorded – she can view later._   “…Matt’s speaking to me.  Someone’s run behind him.  Heartbreak – he’s so sad.  Why’s he sad?  I can’t hear him now…but I can’t read his lips.  They’re spouting gibberish.  The hospital room has a titanium key.  The IV in my arm is wrong – not saline.  Saline.  What’s in there?  I can see the bottle.  Bananas.  I want bananas.  No.  I want to swim.  The interrogation room…why is it green?  It should be grey.”

Her eyes shot open, “Oh…oh no…  Mr. Holmes,”

“Potassium Chloride.  Interesting – this is getting interesting,” he glowed.  “Wonderful!  I had been so bored.”  Her eyes looked to him, but she was not amused.  _She should be buzzing – it’s a small step._   There wasn’t any mirth at the fact that she had revealed someone tried to poison her.

“You need to go back into my head, now,” she spoke articulately.  Her voice was low and grave.  “I don’t care that it might cause a break.  You need to do it.  Now.  Oh, I was such an idiot.  I don’t know how I didn’t see this.”

“John could walk back in here and be very cross,” he jibed as he reclined in his chair crossing his leg.

“Holmes – “ she warned.  She immediately picked up her laptop and began frantically searching for something.  The tone of her voice was so clear to him.  It’s almost as if it had snapped him out of a daze.  He was acute.  “Tell me everything that you know about chromesthesia.”

“Oh!”  His face lit up.  “I should have guessed based on the names of your playlists that you were a synaesthete.  Oh – that’s new!”

She stopped, “I’m waiting, Mr. Holmes.”

“Ordinary people have the senses stimulated separately in a matter of speaking.  People with synesthesia tend to have a secondary sense or cognitive ability.  There are seven or eight variations that are documented.  You asked about chromesthesia – color synesthesia.  It’s the process where the ear understands and hears the sound but there is, usually, a visual stimulation.  Chromesthetes are able to see sounds.  As a rule, louder sounds are brighter; et cetera…” he trailed off.

She was scrolling her track pad furiously and clicking loudly, “I’ve had it almost my entire life – at least as long as I can remember.”  She clicked again and her eyes were scanning the screen.  “When I was about nine, I realized that other people didn’t see sound like I did.  It was puzzling.  I was crushed when I was talking to my brother about it.  He is…was…older than I am.  He was my confidant for so long.  And I was always so headstrong that I didn’t often need protecting or defending.  But we made a code when we were kids with sounds and music.  The key is in my library!” she spun her laptop around quickly.  “He was always such a fool with his love for pop music.  He put all of it on my computer – always told me that it would make me relatable to my students!”  Sherlock’s face hardened slightly.  “Before he died…he downloaded a random set of music to my laptop.  Not just his regular garbage – but things that I didn’t think he listened to,” she turned the laptop to face her again, “And I think in there is something locked away.”

“How can you be so sure?” he asked thoughtfully.  “It’s completely plausible, yes, but what if you’re desperately connecting separate instances in the hopes that you find an answer because of your sentiment?”

A normal person would be angry at him.  A normal person would be hurt and furious.  “Because you’re willing to check,” she said softly.  Shannon wasn’t an ordinary person.  “Mr. Holmes, I feel that you should know that this time last year, I wasn’t as – bright.  You would have thought me boring, I’m sure of it.  It’s odd.  I had tests and scans done in the event there was a tumor up here,” she tapped her temple.  “But there’s nothing there.  Considering the recent events, what if I had been prepped for something for so long – and it was accidentally unlocked?  What if music was the key?”

Frozen, he silently pondered what she had said.  _It’s completely plausible…it is indeed a stretch.  I’ve seen odder things, haven’t I?  No I haven’t.  Not like that.  Sensibly, I should think she’s a lunatic.  Do I continue as a means of fun?  Her delusion could progress and she quite possibly could suffer a psychotic break.  She doesn’t appear to show any signs of such.  But perhaps she has been like this for her whole life.  Interesting.  Conclusion: Further examination required._

“I know how farfetched it sounds, so you can just stop going over that in your head.  The only way to know is to try.”

“You do realize that if you are correct – then the probability that your brother was involved more intimately with his murder than you may care to know will come to light?”

“I understand,” she said coldly.  “But I refuse to use my fighting skills every week for the rest of my life.”

It was funny, that comment.  But neither of them were laughing.  She looked at his watch.  “It’s almost five in the afternoon, Mr. Holmes, your doctor will be back soon, I suspect.  Shall we?”

“What makes you feel so sure of yourself?  This could go horribly wrong,” he dipped his head slightly looking up at her.  An ordinary person would be intimidated.  The stare was powerful.

Her eyes focused on him slowly and she turned her computer again, “The first song from that download is called _Titanium._ ”  He leveled his head out, “And the second song looks purple to me.”

“Miss Byrns, please relax,” his voice resounded.  She turned and put her laptop on the end table to her right and turned the volume up.

Her eyes were so clear.  “Use it when it’s time.”  She took a long look at this man that she’d only just met a day ago.  Things could go verbally unsaid between them.  The subtleties in their being said more than words could at this point.  His eyes were generally calm and his face looked as if it had been sculpted from stone.  His long arms gave way to perfect hands and long fingers: how typical of a violinist.  She saw the detective for the first time.  She took that split second and didn’t observe him.  “And I see you.”

Her eyes closed and missed the flash of confusion and fear fly across his features.  He shifted in discomfort – this was what vulnerability often felt like. He felt it a few times in his life.  John brought it to the table –often.  He got up and closed the doors to the flat, leaving notes on them for John and Mrs. Hudson. 

_If you’re going to speak, don’t come in.  
Experiment in progress._


	10. Expectations are for Schmucks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a safe and happy Independence Day to you all; and those of you that aren't from home - have a good July 4th!

He sat back down and noticed she was already primed for the experiment.  Her breathing was steady, _Not that it hasn’t been thus far_ , and she was almost in a state of meditation.  _Remarkable._

“Miss Byrns, I am going to ask you a few questions.  You are allowed to answer them as best you wish: you can move about if you feel the need.  Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she replied calmly.

“I want to go back to a day about a month ago.  It was the day that Matt died,” he said plainly.  Her breathing hitched.  “Can you go there and tell me what you see?”

“It’s out of order.  It doesn’t make sense.  The door’s locked.”

“I know, Miss Byrns, I know.  I have the key here.  If I give you the key, will you open that door?”

“If you have the key, I guess I should.  I’m not supposed to be here.”

He got up and pressed play on her laptop; music began to fill the air.  _Titanium:_ It was some poppy tune he had heard playing on the radio within the past few weeks out on the street.  It annoyed him.  Regardless of how fitting some of the lyrics seemed to be.  Gradually, Shannon lifted her arm, made a turning motion, and ‘pushed’ a door open.  Sherlock stood there, slightly giddy that there was progress.  He walked over to the mantle and adjusted the video camera to get a better angle of their session.  He spun on his heel and knelt down in front of her.

“What do you see, Miss Byrns; what is it that you hear?”

Her face scrunched in concentration.  “It’s quiet.  But grey.  There’s something there.”

“Where did this door open?  Can you describe that room to me?”  She licked her lips and made it look as if she tasted something awful.

“Copper.  The air tastes like copper.  It’s Matt’s living room.  It’s off,” she squinted.  Her head scanned left to right with her closed eyes.  She reached out to her left, “The poster on the wall…it’s not right.  It’s a shot from a telescope of the Andromeda Galaxy.  It’s supposed to be Orion.”  He arm slowly recoiled.  “We always were able to find Orion.  He was our protector.  Orion.”  Sherlock heard the soft click of the door and whipped around, alarmed.  John silently walked through and frowned.  Sherlock pulled out his phone and typed out _Her idea._ and showed it to him.  John sighed and sat at the table.  “It’s not grey anymore.  It’s purple.”

Sherlock turned and pressed play and another pop tune began to play.  Her head snapped to the right.  Sherlock delicately moved back behind his chair to rest his hands on the back.  “What do you hear?”

“Yelling.”  She awkwardly stood and John’s surprise gave Sherlock a sense of satisfaction.  She brushed past the table nearly knocking over the computer and stopped before tripping over the coffee table.  “Matt’s speaking to someone now.  He sounds scared.  I see orange,” Sherlock skipped to the next song.

“What’s he saying, Miss Byrns?”

“You’re not allowed to be here.  I can’t be here.  Evacuate!”  Sherlock looked to the playlist and found the latter word to be in the next track, so he skipped ahead.  Another dreadful tune.  He’d heard it a few years ago.  It was played a lot in clubs.  He was undercover.

She froze with her arms stretched out.  “I’m going to die.  I have to be quiet.”

Concern covered John’s face.  Shannon swiveled slowly and crouched.  “Tell me where you are, Miss Byrns, what do you see?”

“I’m hiding in the coat closet.  It’s hot.  He’s yelling again.  The other man.  Medium timbre, higher baritone, nasally – I’ve heard his voice before.  He’s threatening to kill me today.  Matt is arguing.”

“What are they saying?” Sherlock commanded in front of her. 

“ ‘Shannon’s covered.  I’ll cover her.  You can’t touch her, she’s my sister.’  ‘Oh, but we’ll get her.  She’s ready.’  ‘Don’t touch her.’  He knows I’m here.  Matt knows I’m here.  He was expecting me.  ‘My heart may have expired, but she’ll go on.  You won’t out smart her.’  Matt’s brought out to the living room.  I can see him through the slats.  He knows where I am.  ‘Live in my house.’  He’s shot.”  A tear rolled off her cheek and hit the floor.  Shannon plopped down onto her bottom hard.  Her face contorted as pain emerges.

Sherlock nodded at John and he reached over to skip the next song, miming that it lasted three and a half minutes.  The lyrics in the song echoed some of the things she had just said.  John’s face fell.  He’d heard this song once before – at a musical he took a girlfriend to.  It’s devastating.  Sherlock saw the recognition of the tune in John’s eyes.

She sat there with tears flowing from her eyes.  She was humming first – odd harmonies here and there in between gasps for air.  She began singing and proceeded to get louder.  “If you’re cold and you’re lonely – when you’re worn out and tired – when your heart has expired.”  She stopped and turned her head to the side.  “O’ death.  Oh, Matt – I’m sorry.  You told me to stay put….  Flash of white.  Gun shot.  Matt’s fallen over.  I can’t scream.”

Sherlock nodded and the next song played– it was some man with an Appalachian twang singing and playing guitar.

“When the devil takes hold, who’ll have mercy on your soul.  O’ Death?” she repeats after the lyric.  She stands up and walks toward Sherlock.  He’s absolutely mesmerized at this experiment.  _This has worked out far better than I could have wanted._

Her tears had stopped.  “What is it, Miss Byrns?  What’s happening?”

Her face was completely flat and unresponsive; her voice dull.  “I have a message for you, Sherlock Holmes.”  She was imitating the voice she described earlier.  “If you can hear this, I have to applaud you.  She’s been perfect.  I hadn’t expected this to happen.  Call it a fail-safe.”

“Miss Byrns, is it the man from earlier?”

“Yes,” she whispered.  “He’s telling me to remember.”  Her face returned to being placid.  “She’s next.  There’s something in this head that I require.  If you fish it out.  She lives.  If you don’t – she dies.”

Shannon swung out and struck Sherlock with an open palm.  He stood there, slowly turning his head back to face her.  The sting was amazingly sharp and his head reeled, but he didn’t move and didn’t break concentration.  “Did you strike him?”

“Yes,” she frowned.  “My side hurts.”  She grabbed to the side that had been hit today.  “He found me and he’s taking me somewhere.  Outside.  There’s a man there.  He’s wearing a mask.  He keeps saying ‘Programming’.  Matt’s dead.”

John’s continued looks of protest were perturbing the detective.  “Miss Byrns, I’m going to count backwards from five.  When I reach one, I want you to open your eyes and awaken.  Do you understand?”

“Matt’s dead.”

“Five…”

“I should have stopped it.”

“…four…”

“I’m his sister.”

“…three…”

“I should have tried…”

“…two…”

“Matt!  I’m so sorry!”

“…one.”

Shannon opened her eyes.  _New mark on his face.  My hand stings.  That must have gone well.  John’s here.  John looks distraught  Irate at him?_   She felt the welled tear in her eye fall slowly down her face.  She contemplated the action and looked confused.  Sherlock’s face was stern and analytical.  She met his gaze for a moment and reached up to his chin and turned his face to examine the welt on his left cheek.  “I’ll get something for that, excuse me.”  The tear dropped to the floor and she silently walked to the kitchen to fetch some ice.

 _Such care.  That would almost have been considered tender, I believe.  Is she genuinely upset that she struck me?_  

“Shannon, you shouldn’t worry yourself.  You struck him because you had struck the guy you saw,” John comforted as he followed her into the kitchen.

“Where’s the god-damned ice?” she choked.  She grabbed at her head in frustration and sat down.  John came around her back and put a consoling arm across her shoulders.  “I don’t want these memories.”

Sherlock still stood in the same place, gaze intent on her.  John’s compassion took over, “Shannon, it’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

“No,” she mumbled, “I remember before the murder.  I was in the house.  I hid.  What the hell have they done?”

She rubbed her face vigorously and opened the freezer again.  She found the ice and grabbed another flannel from the drawer.  She purposefully walked back into the living room.  “Sit,” she commanded.

Confused at why he wanted to listen to her, he sat down in his chair not taking his eyes off of her.  She knelt beside him and pressed the naked ice to his face, tracing the outline of the welt and using the flannel to catch the water.  Her left hand rested gently on his arm, not his shirt.  His sleeves were partially pushed up his forearms.  _Her hands are warm.  And gentle.  Stop it, Sherlock._

She inspected the welt one last time before putting the ice into the flannel, grabbed his hand and placed the ice there as she lifted his hand to his face.  John’s state of shock was noted out of the corner of her eye.  “Stop gawking, John.  I’m still a compassionate human being, believe it or not,” she growled.  She stood up and walked over to the mantle, stopped the recorder and took out the SD card.  She popped it into her laptop and put her ear buds in and walked out of the flat and down the stairs to her room.  Even though the men there had just witnessed her crying, (more than likely considering the facts,) she wanted this review to be private.  If she was to cry again and be conscious of it, she’d prefer to do so alone.

Sherlock sat in his chair, leaning into the ice on his face and drumming his right hand on the arm of the chair in silence.  John walked in, “Are you done having a moment?”

“Don’t be silly, John.  She’s emotionally compromised right now.  Even I know better than to argue with a woman like that,” he spoke flatly.

He rubbed his forehead, “That last song – do you know what it’s from or should I explain it to you?”

“Why, do you know?”

“I went and saw this musical once – an old girlfriend begged me to take her to see it.  So I researched it so that I could show off that I knew stuff about this thing.  It’s based on an opera; more or less, and the man sing then at that point of the show has just lost his partner.  They’re singing in a church at the funeral.  To some of us regular, boring people, it’s quite sad.”

He ignored John, “How would someone have known a month ago that I would have taken interest in this case?  That seems rather presumptuous.”  John gave ves him his best _seriously_ face.  “You know what I mean.”

Mrs. Hudson carefully trotted up the steps carrying a platter of food.  “Boys, I hope you’re hungry.  It’s almost seven.  Oh,” she looks around puzzled, “Where’s Shannon?”

“Downstairs,” Sherlock replied.  “I’ll go and fetch her.”  _She needs to eat.  John needs to eat._

“What’s happened to his face?” he hears her ask as he took light steps down.  He reached the door, tested it to find it unlocked and walked in quietly.  She sat there quietly watching the end of the footage.  Knowing what he knew now about the music selection he couldn't ’t be sure if her emotions are singularly from her testimony.  She was brooding and tears are free-falling onto her keyboard.  There was a mattress laying against the wall opposite the inactive fireplace.  She would need some furniture of sorts.

“You could have knocked, Mr. Holmes,” she muttered, popping one of the ear buds out.  “But not really your thing, I guess.”

 _You moron.  There’s a reason for these things.  John keeps reminding you._ “Mrs. Hudson has brought up supper.  I was sent to fetch you.”

“No you weren’t,” she chastised, “I could hear the discussion because the door was open.  Don’t use civil pleasantries because John’s here.”

Taken aback, he took a few more steps into the room.  She changed her shirt; this one is black and more form fitting.  It flattered her.  _Immensely._

“No, I suppose not.  But it would have been either John or myself – and considering I didn’t want to explain this,” he pointed to his face, “I came.”

“You and Mycroft,” she started as he scowled at the sound of his brother’s name, “Even now – if it truly came down to the wire, you would do anything for each other.  I can read that off of you.  So what kind of bastard am I that I couldn’t have saved my brother?”

He moved to the opposite wall, “It’s evident that your brother saved you for a specific purpose; and, because of the hypnosis session, we now know that there is an article of information somewhere in your mind that has put your life in danger.  Don’t worry – I had a case a little similar to this once and I was able to save that person as well.”  He rounded his path and found Shannon standing before him.  No more than three or so inches separated them.

“I understand that.  But – never mind,” she sighed.  Her mind was a mess.  Nothing was making sense like it should.  She was overwhelmed with the released memories from the murder and her body’s pain and exhaustion was catching up with her.

“You need to eat,” he stated.  There was almost a detectable edge of concern in his voice.

She lost her balance as she shifted her weight onto her injured knee and fell forward into him.  He grabbed her by her shoulders to help right her and realized her head wasn’t far from his chin.  The smell of the shampoo she used after swimming was light and citrusy.  Notes of chlorine still clung to her as well as the smell of cayenne.

“Sorry.”  She turned and went to leave and go up the stairs.  _Those hands.  So sure.  And gentle.  Damn it, Shannon, you stop this right now.  Get a fucking hold of yourself.  Damn you.  Damn that man.  Damn you for being a sapiosexual.  This is unacceptable._

She left without saying a word.  He heard Mrs. Hudson and John ask her if she was alright and begin to make comfortable small talk as dinner was being served.  He looked at his hands and felt that they were buzzing with electricity.  _Intriguing._   He left her room that was still dingy from not being updated or painted and shut the door behind him.  He climbed the stairs and rounded the landing to see John bringing in an extra chair from the dining room table.  John gave a knowing smirk to Sherlock and pointed to the seat beside their guest.  In kind, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They sat there in moderate silence.  The two intellectuals had to sit closer together than normal given the amount of space at the little table.  Sherlock glared at John, “There’s more room at the other table.”

“The microscope’s there.  As is all that work you never want to have moved.  So that was a no.  And we eat here anyway,” John reminded knowingly, ignoring the man across the table.

Mrs. Hudson sat at the head of the table to Sherlock’s left, dishing out generous helpings to all.  Shannon sighed.  _It could be worse.  It’s endearing, really.  John’s obviously the mother here.  Sherlock is the temperamental five year old genius.  Mrs. Hudson’s the oblivious aunt.  Dysfunction at its finest to create an interesting family dynamic._ She rested her arms on the table edge, “Mrs. Hudson – they don’t make you cook for them all the time, do they?”

“Oh no dear,” she grinned warmly, “I’m the land lady; not the housekeeper.  It’s a special occasion.  We have a guest, and you’re just so lovely.”  John choked on his beer.

“Careful, John,” Sherlock warned, “I won’t resuscitate you.  You’ll have to rely on either of them to do so.”

She rested her fingertips to her temple, letting the weight of her head distribute down her arm.  “You’re an astonishing bunch, aren’t you?”  She felt Sherlock’s knee accidentally brush her own.  He moved his leg abruptly away from her.  She wasn’t fazed and didn’t move any.  He stole a sideways glance at her with a skeptical brow.  “Look at you lot,” she continued.  “You may not see it or refuse to admit it, but your dysfunction and dynamic suit you all.  It’s commendable.”

John laughed heartily, “Wait until he throws a tantrum.”

“Or shoots holes into my wall!” Mrs. Hudson interjected.

Shannon turned her head to face him, “Bored?”

“Very.”

She nodded and smiled to then drop her arm and begin to eat.  John offered a beer to her, which she took gladly and snapped off the lid.  “That wasn’t a twist-off, Shannon.”

“Oh well, I guess I’m just that good,” she retorted smugly taking a drink.

Sherlock showed a small amount of admiration to her and relaxed his leg.  It stayed there under the table gently touching hers.  She looked to him with a certain amount of warmth in her eyes.  Sherlock cleared his throat and picked at the food.

“Quid pro quo, Mr. Holmes,” she said returning back to her own plate.  He set his fork down and turned to face her.  “Eat or I won’t be participating the next time we try a hypnosis session.”  She took a bite and looked to John.

John looked between them and smiled.  “Oh, you’re good,” he chortled after swallowing his food.  He quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson gave an approving nod.  “What’ll it be, Sherlock?”

He growled to himself and picked up his fork to eat his plate in silence, “Quid pro quo, Miss Byrns.”

She felt a small sense of relief that the man to her left had allowed their proximity to stay.  There was more to this man than could necessarily be observed.  _A puzzle.  I like puzzles_.  Her phone began to ring from the other side of the room.

“Excuse me, please – that should be O’Rourke.  Best I speak with him now otherwise he’ll call at the odd hours of the morning,” she scooted out and grabbed on to Sherlock’s shoulders to maneuver her way around.  She picked her phone up off the coffee table and went out on the landing to sit on the stairs.

His shoulders felt her warm hands through the thin fabric and there was a lasting warmth that rested there.  _It’s almost comforting.  Do not be so quick to make a similar mistake as you did with The Woman._  

Mrs. Hudson watched him dutifully clear his plate with a small amount of wonder.  She and John would constantly beg him to eat more when he was on cases.  Here he was, eating his food; regardless of the reason.  That woman didn’t even have to sound cross to make him do so.  She wouldn’t pretend to understand whatever there was going on between the two of them; but, there was some sort of pride burning within her chest at the person sitting there to her right.  It was inexplicable.


	11. Retrograde

“O’Rourke, thanks for sending me on this wonderful vacation,” she seethed.  “I’ve been stalked and assaulted today.  You’re off to a winning start.”

“Shannon, are you alright?  Did they touch you?” he asked quickly. 

 _Concerned.  Precious._   “I got bit on my leg,” she replies looking to her brace, “and I got tagged a few times in the ribs.  I’ll see if I can have the Inspector send you over the report.  You’d be so proud.  I landed both guys in the hospital from what I hear.”

“Jesus Christ, Shannon – I sent you over there to calm down!”

Her voice grew edgy, “Then why did you send me when Mycroft Holmes beckoned since you’re so very aware that his brother is a genius detective?  That wasn’t very ‘smart’, now was it?”  She barked, “I’m not a moron, Sean.”

The sting in her voice made him wince, “Look – I had to get you outta the city.  Shannon, you’re self-destructing!”

“So you keep telling me,” she rolled her eyes.

He sighed, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” she countered coolly, “I’ve had myself hypnotized twice in the past three hours.  It’s been great.  I’m making progress.”

“You mean, like suppressed memories or some shit like that?  That’s wonderful!  What did you find out about the men?”

“Sean, I’m not going to speak to you until I come home,” she said.  Her mind was flashing danger signs all over.  She had never said there was more than one man.  “I fear that whatever this all comes down to being – someone will come after you,” she lied convincingly.

“ – But, Shannon…I’m the chief officer of this case – I have a right to know!” he snarled.

“You will – when I get home.”

“Shannon,” he was angry now, “Don’t you dare!”

“You sent me on vacation, O’Rourke.  Don’t call.”  She hung up on him and tapped her phone against her lips.  She turned her body on the step, “John, can I borrow your phone a second?  Mine died,” she lied.  He nodded and walked it over to her before returning to help clear some of the empty dishes.  She quickly punched in Andy’s number and listened to it ring.

“Hello?”

“Andy, shut up – you need to listen to me right now,” she snapped.

From the other room, Sherlock’s ears pick up on the urgency in her voice as the tone drops lower.  She’s made a ‘deduction’.  Wonderful.

She flips through the news feed on her smartphone, “Listen, you need to go to Erie, Pennsylvania – no questions.  Go to the Sheraton along the water and there will be a room there for you.  I think I’ve made some progress on determining the whole thing with Matt.”

“ – Shannon, I can’t just – “

“I didn’t tell you to speak!”  She typed into her phone.  “The manager there went to school with me and owes me a small favor.  I don’t care what you have to tell your boss, but you need to leave, ASAP.  I’ll then contact you from another number with instructions.  I need you to be my eyes and ears while I’m gone.”

“Shannon,” he warned dejectedly.

“You can’t tell anyone where you’re going!”

“I have to work!” he groaned.

“If I’m right, Andy, they’re coming after you.  I’m so sorry.”  There was silence on the other end.  She rubbed her face roughly, “Look, Andy – you picked up the pieces after Matt died…I remember how rough it got at times.  You saved my life more times this month than I can care to admit – but I need you to trust me and let me return the favor.”  Her voice was tired and pleading.

Andy finally broke the tense silence between them, “If I lose my job over this, I’m kicking you out.”

She frowned, “I suppose that’s fair.”

“You suppose?  For fuck’s sake, Shannon!  What have you gotten yourself into?  Huh?!  You got up at the crack ass of dawn and went to the Coast Guard to do your fucking test on hypothermia – and then spend a day in the hospital.  You get released and O’Rourke and some douche-y Brit come into our house and explain that you have to leave the country immediately because you’ve been summoned.  YOU DIDN’T EVEN ASK WHO!  You could have been taken and killed!” he ranted.  She pouted to herself as she listened.  “AND THEN!  THEN YOU HAVE THE FUCKING DECENCY TO TEXT ME THAT YOU GOT BATTLESCARS!  What the hell is your problem?  I had to find out from O’Rourke that you got assaulted!”

“ – I’ve also been hypnotized twice today – “ she interjected sarcastically.

“AND NOW,” he yelled, “ _Now_ you want me to just _disappear_ because you’re getting twitchy over there?!”

“When you put it like that, you make it sound awful,” she quipped.

He groaned loudly on the other end of the line, “FUCK YOU!”

“Thank you, no,” she replied with a small laugh, “I’m not your type.”

Andy was breathing heavily and began to chuckle.  “You are such a prick,” he chided.

“I’m aware,” she agreed, “I need you to be safe.  Don’t even tell O’Rourke.  I think there’s a mole in his department.”  She lied – but he wouldn’t be able to tell.  “Promise me that you’ll do this for me?”

“Fine.  I’ll go pack and call my boss.  I think I have food poisoning.”

“Thank you.  Remember, I’ll call you.  Don’t go looking for me.”

“Prick.”

“Jizz-trough.”

“You stay safe, Shannon, I’m serious.”

“Only when I can,” and she hung up.  She stood up and walked back into the living room and handed the phone back to John while she was fidgeting on her own.

“Your phone’s not dead,” he stated.

“Oh, so it’s not – silly me.”

“Did – did you just do something – is my phone being tracked or something now?” he asked with a groan.

“I’d say so,” the detective answered.  “Her phone’s probably bugged to an extent.  Give it here.”  His palm lay open outstretched to her.

“No.  You’ll break it,” she sniggered defensively.  “We need an x-ray machine.”  She pocketed her phone.

“Precisely,” he countered flatly closing his hand.  “I have one.”

“No you don’t,” John responded.  “At least I don’t think you do – you didn’t earlier…” he looked around the room anxiously.

“St. Bart’s.”

“St. Bart’s.”

“St. Bart’s!”

“Oh, well I’m glad you can repeat one another.  Care to explain?”

John smiled, “Looks like we’re going out.  Get your coat – or something.”

Sherlock was already walking to the couch to collect his jacket and meandered his way downstairs to snatch up his coat.  John and Shannon followed hurriedly on his heels before stopping in her room to grab another zip-up.

“Is that seriously the best coat that you have?” John huffed as their walk became more brisk.

“Yes, I’m fine thanks.  Oh fuck this shit,” she laughed as Sherlock strode further ahead.  “I’m not catching up with Speedy tonight.”  She flagged her arm out to the street, “TAXI!  Coming, John, or do you two want some alone time?”

“Oh for God’s sake – I’m not gay!” he defended.

She looked puzzled.  “I know that; but you two are obviously close.  So if you want your alone time – “

“Get in the damned car,” he grumbled as he held the door open for her.  He slid onto the seat, “St. Bart’s.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his contacts to find a number and put the phone to his ear, “Ah, Molly – I’m just giving you some warning – we’re on our way over.  No, no…he’s walking.  Yeah.  Yeah.  Alright then.”

“Friend of yours?”

“She’s a dear, really.  She puts up with Sherlock far more than he deserves.  Personally, I think she’s sweet on him.  But anyway – she works in the morgue and let’s Sherlock into a few of the labs.  She’s his in for equipment that’s otherwise off limits.”

“Darling,” she chirped as she rubbed her knee.  She jostled around the cab and bumped into him, hissing at the pain from her side.

“I’m going to need to look at those ribs, Shannon.  You might have broken something.  I’ll see if I can sneak you off to X-Ray for a moment.  I know the hospital rather well.”

She sighed.  “Do we have to?”

“I’m going to insist.  Don’t make me force you.  I’m a soldier.”

“You’re a doctor.”

He scoffed, “Well – ask Sherlock about that.”  She made a mental note to ask later.

The spoke idly as the driver drove them to their destination.  She paid the cabbie and the two of them walked into the hospital.  They wandered up a stairwell and down a hallway to find a young, petite brunette waiting for them.

“Hello, John.  Is this your date?”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted from behind them, “She’s the client.  Shannon Byrns, Molly Hooper.”

“Pleased to meet you, Molly,” she extended a hand.  “John was just telling me in the car over here about how instrumental you are.  That’s really admirable!”

She smiled nervously and leaned over to John, “She talks like him.”

“Yeah, you’ll get used to it, Molly.  I don’t think too much on it.”

Shannon felt Sherlock’s presence behind her.  _It is electrifying_.  _Shannon Byrns, you’re trying to find out about your brother’s murder, not seek a fling_.  She held out her phone to Molly.  “The boys here say that you’ve got an x-ray machine,” Molly took it into her hand gingerly, “There’s a slight possibility that my phone has been bugged.  I checked the software and couldn’t find anything – so I’m then left to assume there’s a hardware issue...”

Sherlock’s face was delightedly puzzled.  She was so brazen.  She’d never spoken to this woman before and here she was, indirectly ordering her to x-ray the phone.

“…and if they trust you enough; then I guess I will trust you, too.”  She gave a gentle smile.

“Okay,” Molly responded confused, “I guess so.  Let’s go.”

Sherlock pushed past them to follow Molly.  John grabbed Shannon’s arm and said, “We’ll follow shortly.”  He urged her to the left hallway for the stairs.  Sherlock furrowed his brow at the unexpected behaviour from John and Shannon looked back to him and shrugged.  _I’m not concerned – it’s John.  Upstairs most likely.  Surprised John said nothing._

Molly walked into the lab and placed the phone into the x-ray machine. Sherlock walked after her, “Why are you doing this?”

“Sorry?” she asked perplexed.

He put his hands on his waist, “She could have John and I hostage and you’re just doing what she said.  You’ve never met her before.”

“Oh, should I not x-ray the phone?”  She turned to open the door.

“No, x-ray the phone.”  He walked over and watched the monitor as it began to show the intricacies of the device.  He extracted his phone and texted John.

 

_John:_

_Make sure that she gets the x-ray.  
When you’re done playing doctor, come downstairs._

_-SH_

He left the phone of the desk and sat back in his chair.  A few more minutes in the machine and he would have a clear picture of her mobile.

John had taken Shannon into an X-Ray Room and schmoozes the attendant to do him a favor if the good doctor were to put in a word with the young woman’s mentor.  John moved Shannon up onto a table before going to sit behind the control panel.  A few minutes later, they were done.  Shannon got up and placed the lead lined apron back on its hanger and walked into the control room and saw John looking at the first glimpse of the digital image.  He and the attending looked over the screen meticulously and pointed to this shadow and that.  Annoyed that she was ignored, Shannon left and headed downstairs.

She walked into the lab quietly and startled Molly.  “Sorry,” she spoke mildly, “I got bored upstairs.  I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Hooper.”

“It’s Molly, please – and what were you doing upstairs?”

“Please, Molly, she was getting a chest x-ray,” he affirmed without looking up.  “She was attacked today.  Are you sure this has finished?  Of course it has.  What is it missing?  Your phone is a Samsung, Miss Byrns, correct?”

“Yes,” she answered making her way to stand behind him.  She leaned on the back of his chair and hunched forwards.  _Shannon, don’t think about it.  Ignore it._

Their eyes scanned the phone thoroughly looking for something that could possibly be out of place.  Nothing looked as such.  That was until they both pointed at the same place on the screen.  There was a slightly oversized shadow where her micro-SD card lay.

She turned around to open the door and withdrew her phone.  She peeled off the backing carefully and rested it on the tabletop.  She stared at it intently.  “Anything going to blow up on me, Mr. Holmes?”

“Not that I can see, no,” he retorted watching her carefully pull out the battery and card.  She grabbed a small pair of tweezers from the worktop and pulled out the extremely thin piece film.  In the dead center of it was a small dot with circuitry spreading outward.

She placed it on a slide and handed it to Sherlock who then moved to the microscope.  While he was adjusting the nobs to alter the focus, John barged in.  “Oh thank God, I thought you were taken!  I tried to call you…”  She crossed her arms and scrunched her face.  “…but you wouldn’t have answered because they had your phone.”

She leaned back onto the counter behind her as she stood behind Molly, “No broken bones then?”

“No, looks like some bruising – but if you want, I’m sure I can scrounge up a compression brace or the like – “

“She’ll be fine, Doctor,” Sherlock jabbed as he started taking notes.

Shannon watched Molly and the way that she looked at the detective.  _Definitely sweet on him.  He’s surely noticed.  He’s not a complete moron._   She sighed heavily and crossed her arms and legs at their ankles.

“Bothering you, Miss Byrns,” he quipped sarcastically.

“Not at all, Mr. Holmes.  Practicing my meditative breathing.”

John guffawed loudly, causing the three people on the other side of the room to look at him with skeptical looks.  “Sorry – I just – never mind.”

Molly was taking a defensive stance over the verbal exchange between Shannon and Sherlock.  “I’m going to get some coffee,” she said hoping that no one would notice.  Shannon looked over and could see the scientist bristling.  Knowing what goes on in a woman’s head personally, she felt it wise to change the dynamic.

“I’ll go with you.  I could use some.  I’m sure the boys would like to cuddle.”  Sherlock ignored the comment and John went to speak up, but Shannon shot him a look.  “They’ve been babysitting me all day.  I’m sure I’m beyond a pain in the ass.”

“Oh.”  Molly was surprised.  “Fine, yeah.  I can show you there.”

“Thanks, dear.”

The two women left talking amongst themselves and walked away until the men could no longer hear them.

John bit the inside of his cheek as he walked towards his friend.  “So – I looked at her x-rays.”

“Yes, I assume you did.  You are a doctor, after all,” he adjusted a few dials more accurately.

He crossed his arms, “I don’t know who’s been beating that poor girl, but she’s been through one hell of a time.  She’s got hairline fractures that have healed over on at least three of her ribs.”

The detective shrugged, “We aren’t surprised.  Wait – you’re surprised?”  He looked up to see John’s bewilderment.  “Don’t worry, John, you saw that footage today – she’s experienced in some discipline of martial arts.  And judging how well she faired today, I’m left to assume that she’s sparred quite a bit and may possibly be a grappler.  The grappler thing needs some more evidence – but it’s logical considering the way that she moved about.”

“I hate you.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I really do.  So I just did all of that because – “

“You’re chivalrous, a doctor, looking for a date; being compassionate…take your pick, John.”

“I hate you.”

He looked back down to the microscope and was able to figure out exactly what kind of bug had been in her phone.


	12. Laughter Helps

Molly led Shannon up to the office where she stowed a small coffee pot.  She opened up a filter and started the brew.  Shannon sat at a table nearby and offered her a seat.  Molly accepted and eyed up the other woman.  “So – er – how old are you?”

Shannon frowned.  “That’s not the first question I thought you were going to ask.  Interesting.  Well, I’m twenty-five.”

Molly pouted.  “You’re a little younger than me.  How long have you known Sherlock?”

 _Finally, we’re getting somewhere.  I’ve been bored._   “I got here yesterday around noonish.  My brother was murdered last month and his expertise was needed to help me clear my name.”  _It’s a small lie - …ish._   “So I came out here to see if the great consultant detective could do more than Boston’s finest could.  So far, I have to say, he’s brilliant.”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “He gets really involved with his work.  Sometimes he forgets to take care of himself.”

“But you don’t.”

“Sorry?”

“I can see it, Molly.  I took lots of psychology in school,” she explained, “I can just read people pretty well.”  _Also a small lie_.  “I can see that you care about his well-being.  It’s good to know that someone has his back.”

She smiled sheepishly, “But he doesn’t listen to me.”

“I’m sure he does, Miss Hooper,” she shrugged, “It’s just not the same way that the rest of us think he should listen.”

Molly stood up shakily and giddy, grabbed two mugs and filled them with coffee.  “Sorry, I don’t have any milk.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she cooed, “I learned to drink coffee just about every way when I was at Uni.”

Molly set the cup on the table and sat down.  “You’re quite nice, Shannon.  A lot of people here think me strange because I’m the cadaver girl.  You didn’t seem to notice.”

She sipped her coffee lightly and put the mug back on the table, “Quirky, perhaps.  But strange?  No way.  And as far as the cadaver thing: eh.  Someone has to do it – it’s just lovely that I got to meet someone like you.”

There it was, the genuine smile that Shannon had been digging for.  Molly trusted a bit more now.  She was in.  “Did they tell you about the time that Sherlock…”  _Finally.  Amusement._

 

John heard cackles of laughter growing louder from outside.  Not only cackles – but snorts and gasps for air.  Sherlock looked up lazily from the eyepiece to the door, waiting for the two women to come in.  Molly and Shannon burst through in a fit of laughter, “…you mean he genuinely wanted you to just _make_ cadavers appear?  Seriously?!”  Shannon wiped away a small tear from her eye.

“ _Honestly!_   Seriously, some of the most bizarre – Oh, hello!”  Molly was eagerly cheerful.

Sherlock locked eyes with Shannon who reflected her triumph.  ‘ _Bite me.  You owe me’_ she mouthed.  A flicker of mirth shot across his eyes and he reclined backward on the stool.  “Well, if you ladies are done poking fun at my antics, I could tell you what I found on Shannon’s phone.  But that’s only after the laughter stops.”

Molly gasped loudly and was sent into fits, “SEE?!”

Shannon crossed her arms and giving a hearty laugh as she walked over to the microscope.  She leaned across his body to take a look at the slide so that she could know what he was talking about.  Sherlock could smell hints of her body wash and the warm spice it gave off.  Her perfume – whatever it was, was very fitting to the other scents that clung to her frame.  He had to investigate them individually.

Molly staggered over to catch both her breath and composure, dutifully taking her spot in the back and began to re-order some of her work that had become disheveled.  With a large breath, she finally had ceased her giggles.

Shannon whispered softly that only Sherlock could hear her, “You and I have some things to discuss, Mr. Holmes.”

Her quiet speech withdrew him from his mild haze, “I doubt that, Miss Byrns.”

She halted herself, withdrew from the microscope with a smile and turned to lean on the counter the microscope was on.  “And what am I looking at?”

John was too focused on Molly to have noticed their antics.  “Based on the size and placement of the different mechanisms – “

“You do not need to show off to me, Mr. Holmes; I’m very aware of how bright you are.”

John and Molly turned mouths agape to look the pair of them.  Her eyebrows raised and arms and ankles crossed staring down at him; and he with a turned head looking up at with the small furrow in his brow.  The corners of his mouth were turned down in a slight frown.  John and Molly exchanged a quick glance and looked back.

Their gaze was locked for a while, “Maybe John likes my showing off.”

“I don’t,” John responded.

Sherlock’s eyes didn’t move from hers, “Molly likes it when I show off.”

“Okay?”

Shannon shifted her mouth to the side of her face, “Well?”

“There’s a tracker and a feature that attached itself to the hard drive through the SD card – I can easily put it in another identical phone and no one would be the wiser.  Satisfied?” he pouted.

Shannon broke their gaze and looked to Molly, giving her a wink.  “I’d say so.”

“She’s the greatest,” Molly piped up in the tense silence.  “You should have more clients like her!”

“Now boys, you clean up your mess before you leave.  I’ll meet you outside.”  She got off the counter, collected her phone bits – and walked out the door.

Sherlock looked out of the corner of his eyes as she walked away.  _That shirt is just that much too tight._

John hurriedly assisted Molly in cleaning the lab up to the way that they had found it and left to follow Shannon.  Molly nervously said goodnight to the both of them.  Sherlock squinted at her, “You like her, I presume?”

“She and I are getting a drink tomorrow after work.” 

 _Surprising._   He turned around and began to walk out, “Goodnight, Molly.”

John caught up to Shannon fairly quickly while Sherlock dragged his feet.  Shannon stood in the hallway and opened a door.  “Loo, John – I’ll meet you outside.”  He shrugged and kept walking.

Sherlock could faintly hear two doors open and close.  One of which was the doors to outside.  The other, however was nearby.  Shannon walked out and ran into him wringing her hands.  She fell squarely on her bottom and began to laugh.  He stared down at her bewildered at her reaction.  “You’re laughing?”

She roared harder, “Sometimes – Mr. Holmes – you have to laugh.  I heard a story when I was upstairs that you went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet.”

“I did.  I didn’t care,” he scoffed, offering her his hand.

She waved him off and in a very awkward half hobble and stood back up, rubbing her bottom.  “Oh, of course not.  Never.”  She rolled her eyes, “That’s why you got dressed anyway.”

“No one ever really tells me what to do, you’ll find.”

“And yet when I commanded you to sit, you did so without a word of rebuttal.”

“I wanted to sit,” he retorted smartly.

She crossed her arms, “I’m sure you did.”

The two of them had been inching closer and closer together, body language on the prowl and on the offensive.  The light hair on her arm was brushing against his coat.  Her cocked hip was only a small reach away from his fingertips.  They stood looking at all the nuances in their features.  Dilated eyes, slight rise in blood pressure – shallow breaths.  _How interesting_ she thought.  She knew, regardless of her command of her body that she was exhibiting similar actions.

He looked quickly from point to point on her face.  She was reflecting a similar feeling that was coursing through his body like fire.  She was intoxicating and electrifying.  Her charisma and demeanor were so much more than that of so many people.

She was intrigued by his entirety of being.  His nearly flawless face with those pale, calculating eyes, the slight waves in his dark hair, his hard mouth and elegant neck that flared to strong shoulders and most undoubtedly to an equally commanding torso:  he had an odd physical beauty to him.  The smell of him, a mixture of his wash and the chemicals he experimented with wafted to her.  She couldn’t have expected anything less and yet it was one of the most fitting smells.  Hey eyes felt heavy and her head dizzy.

His mind was racing for all possible indicators and outcomes of what could, would, and should happen next.  The haze in his mind was getting thick and he was mesmerized.

She blinked slowly and heaved a sigh; she gently turned to her left and brushed past him slowly with her side.  That first step was difficult.  But after she had taken that momentous chance, she willed herself to keep going.  She walked over the threshold and pushed the doors wide open.  The cool England air rushed over her with a certain dissatisfaction.  It cleansed her body thoroughly.

John looked to her, “Do you want a cab back, your Most Injuredness?”

“That sounds wonderful!” chirped the American.  “We just have to wait for his majesty to make a grand exit.”

Sherlock burst through the doors still in a mild daze.  John laughed as he almost tripped, “See a ghost, Sherlock?”

“I’m walking.”  His line of sight went past John and to look at Shannon.

“Sherlock, you can’t be serious,” John griped but he was already walking away.

Shannon growled and stuffed her hands into her pockets.  “I’ll go get him, at least I can play wounded soldier well.”  She trotted towards him.

John pouted, “Is that a jab at me then, right?”

She measured with her fingers with a little spin, “Maybe a little bit.”

“Do you need me to tag along?”

“Nah, super soldier, go home and get rest.  You’ve got work tomorrow.  I’ll get him home,” she shouted as she spun around again.  “Mr. Holmes, wait, you bastard!  I can only move so fast!”

 _They’ll be fine_ John grinned as he hailed a cab to go home.

Shannon ran as best as she could to try and keep up, hobbling with minor winces of pain.  Her knee was not a happy camper.  It’d need some ice later.  She looked to her watch:  9:30. He was ignoring her.   “Sherlock Holmes, you calm your shit right now!” she hollered.

Taken aback, he paused and looked over his shoulder at her as she closed the gap between them.  When she stood beside him, she leaned against the building and rubbed her knee, cursing under her breath.  “That’s a most wonderful manner of showing off your vocabulary.”

She straightened up and looked cross.  “And you’re being an ass.”  She walked past him with a more exaggerated limp.  Coming after him was not the most intelligent decision of the night.

Cameras zoomed in on them from street corners.  Sherlock noticed the subtle movements of the lenses all focusing on them.  _Wonderful, Mycroft, what excellent timing._   “Where are you going?”

“This way.  Somewhere.  I’m sure there’s a pub nearby.  I’ve still got some time before the pubs close.  I seem to recall that when I was over here last.”

“I was walking to clear my head.  I need to think.”

She turned around unfazed, “There are _people_ outside, Mr. Holmes.  And lest we consider how you and _people_ seem to get along.”

His face contorted as he stormed up to her, “Why are you getting drinks with Molly?”

“Does it bother you?”

“No.”

“Then why does it matter?”

“Because she’s Molly Hooper.”

“And?”

“Because.”

“You sound like a five year old who just lost his spot in the sandbox,” she countered putting her hands on her hips.  “It matters because you care.”

He frowned, “Caring is a disadvantage.”

“No, Mr. Holmes, you have that wrong,” she growled digging her finger into his chest.  “I care, and I’m just as strong as you.  So you have ‘ _deducted’_ “ she motioned quotation marks with her fingers, “incorrectly.  And I _swear_ to God, does your brother always make a point to know what you’re doing at all hours of the day?  God, I need a drink.”  She looked over to the closest camera and proudly waved her middle finger.


	13. The Spanish Inquisition

His eyes were bright and digested what she had said.  He parted his lips to speak, but she had already turned to start walking away.  Shannon made a left onto Newgate Street. Sherlock glared up at the camera and followed her.  “Perfect,” she beamed.  She remembered being here once before a few years ago, and it was nice to see that The Viaduct Tavern was still there.  Sherlock followed her into the pub and saw her fighting her way through the small crowd to the bar and ordered herself a beer.

Sherlock saw a booth’s occupants vacate and immediately went to claim it, sitting on the inside with his back to the outside world so that he could watch the people inside.  She turned and spotted him easily as he was taking his coat off and tossing it to his side.  She sat down gingerly in the chair and took a long look at the beautiful wood and golden colors of the establishment.  Not much had changed.

He, though his mind was clear again, was still agitated with her.  She was eliciting chemical responses from him that he’d care to not have.  And she knew that it worked.

“You said you’d been here before?” he asked idly.

“Well, look at you making small talk,” she moaned.  “Yes, I’ve been to this pub before.  I actually sat over there last time.  We came here before we had a gig to perform.  Is that alright?”

“Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be?” he queried.  “The hostility in your voice is annoying.”

“Well, excuse me; I didn’t just silently flirt with myself in that hallway,” she took a drink, “and then trip across the threshold as I left the hospital.”

A hard frown formed, “Oh, is that so?  Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not flattering myself, Mr. Holmes.  Quite the contrary, I’m trying to understand why such an irksomely overwhelming chemical reaction can’t seem to be just ignored.  You are an ass, after all.”

He twitched his head lightly and squinted, “Oh, is this flirting?”

“No,” she pouted, “I’m genuinely calling you an ass.”  She set her glass down and leaned forward.  “I’m going out tomorrow with Molly because she’s actually quite funny.  After she realized that I wasn’t taking over her territory and all.” She shrugged, “You’ve gone out with John before for more than just cases, yes?”

“Of course.”

“John’s your friend.  I’m making friends.  Do you see how this process works?”

His nostrils flared, “I’m quite aware of how societal architectures and expectations work, Shannon, thank you.”

“FINALLY!” she groaned with a smile.  She downed the last of her beer, albeit a bit faster than she intended.  His face was blank.  “It’s about damn time you used my name, Mr. Holmes.  Jesus, wasn’t _Miss Byrns_ overly tedious?  And a far more proper attitude than what you care to show everyone else.”

One corner of his mouth turned up, “Ah.  Baiting.  Clever.  You’re much quicker than other people.”

“I try, Mr. Holmes.  Every so often I try.”

“Sherlock, please.  Mr. Holmes is my brother.”

“Lovely.  So, let’s discuss today, shall we?  And not just recently, but from earlier on.  We never did get that far.”

“Agreed.”

“When you and John saw this morning’s footage, and I know John saw it because after I came out of hypnosis I could see the calculated worry there – how many people were there that you could see?”

His face relaxed as if he were talking to an old friend; as if he were talking to John.  “There were two men at the front who attacked the first two officers from the Yard, your two, and then two in the back that disappeared into the stock room.  That’s all we saw of the first three feeds.”

She gently bit onto the tip of her thumb in thought, “When do you suspect Lestrade will have the rest of the feeds?  And don’t ask me how I know that you two work together, that’s insulting.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.  He had said later today, but I’m going to suppose that I’ll be able to view them tomorrow morning when I wake up.”

“I need to see the footage.”

“Your phone conversation from earlier – what did he say that caught your attention.  It was the mild rise in the timbre of your voice that gave you away.”

Shannon talked with her hands, “I made mention of the two men that attacked me to see if he was paying attention.  But when I made the leading comment about being hypnotized twice, he asked me what had been revealed about the men.  Sean O’Rourke is an idiot by comparison, but that slight slip up has me on edge.”

“Which is why you borrowed John’s phone to call your roommate.  Very well done.  I did that to John once – I texted a suicide murderer.”

“Yes, I know, I read his blog a while back.”

“You read his blog?”

“Read – past tense.  A friend of mine that follows the papers had seen your name come up and sent me the link.  Very interesting things there, Sherlock.”

“Why?”

“What?  Are we asking different questions now?”

“Why did you read his blog?”

“Bored.”

He pouted.  _This banter is entertaining._   “Well, we all do things when we’re bored.”

“I’m not as destructive, ahem, the wall.”

“No, you just jump into arctic pools of water to study the effects of hypothermia.”

She laughed and leaned backwards, “That was low – but I’ll give you that.”  Her hand now covered her mouth in thought.  Her gaze didn’t shift from his right ear, “Is there still a rather large portrait of mirror behind me?”

“Yes, I can see him.”

“Good.  He’s been pacing outside for a good eight minutes or so, now.  He’s looking for someone, ten pounds says he’s looking for me.”

“I wouldn’t bet against you here – “

“Expression, Sherlock,” she chided as he wrapped his scarf around his neck and put his hand on his coat.

“Care to have an interrogation tonight?  I can call Lestrade after I’m bored.”

“Sherlock Holmes, I thought you’d never ask.  Across the road is a circular water feature.  There looks to be a small alleyway to the left of the beige bricked building.  I’ll be leading him down there.  Are you ready?”

Her body was humming with adrenaline and the beer wasn’t diminishing that at all.  He closed his eyes momentarily and opened them with a new focus.  “Fire away.”

She eyed the man come back into the window and stood up, cracking Sherlock on the other side of his face with her left hand.  She then made a gallant effort at walking away drunk and out the door.  He watched patiently from his seat as the man’s reflection moved this way and that before turning and following his prey across the road.

Shannon slurred, stumbled, and hollered obscenities over her shoulder as she moved to the small alleyway.  It looked more like a bike path upon closer inspection, but it’d do just as nicely.  “Fucking git you are, asshole!” she growled as she pretended to fish her phone out of her pocket.  The tail was still following her as she staggered further down.  _Now, don’t be disappointing._   She pretended to try and turn the phone on and dropped it to the ground and began to laugh.

“Oh *hic* shhhhhhhhhit.  Ey, mate?  Ey ey ey, mate!  I’m all thumbs!” she howled with laughter, “Can you help a girl out?”

“Sure, sweetheart,” he grinned malevolently.  “You won’t be causing me any trouble tonight will you?”  his hands dragged up her leg, abdomen, and finally rested on her breast.  He was the only one enjoying himself.

She caught Sherlock closing in with her peripheral vision and saw the determination set into his form.  Her charade dropped instantly and she stood upright.  “Only as much as you wanted to give me.”

The stalker’s face fell before Shannon head-butted him in the nose, breaking it.  Sherlock spun him around by his shoulder and took a hard swing with his right hand to his left cheek.

“Okay, Sherlock?” she asked as he shook out his hand lightly.  “I’m sure I can find you an Aspirin at this time of night.”  Her tone was light as she gathered the unconscious man’s legs up.

“Do shut up,” he goaded as he lifted the man by his torso and they ducked behind a dumpster.

Shannon snatched up her phone and dialed a number, “Wait a second.”  She looked up to one of the windows, “Come on, pick up, you ass.  MARK! Mark, hey, it’s Shannon Byrns.  So you remember what I texted you about the other day?  Yeah.  Uh huh.  Need that.  Thank you dear – I’ll set you up with my cousin when I get back.”  She sighed and put the phone back in her pocket.  She walked down ten or so feet and punched in a number on the keypad.  “After you, _dear,”_ she joked as Sherlock dragged the man behind him.  “Watch Junior’s head.”  She bent over and picked up the limp man’s legs and assisted Sherlock in getting the man inside.

Mycroft sat at his home by the fireplace, reading a report of sorts when he got an alert from one of his workers that monitored his brother’s whereabouts.

 

_Mr. Holmes:_

_Your brother and Miss Byrns just knocked a man unconscious  
and took him into a building._

_He had been following them;  
Course of action?_

_A. Sudo_

_Leave them go.  
Thank you for your service._

_-MH_

_Sherlock:_

_I sorely hope you’re not doing anything too illegal._

_-MH_

_Mycroft:_

_Only showing our guest the best of London.  
Go away._

_-SH_

“Please tell me that was your brother,” she whined as she finished tying the stalkers legs to each respective chair leg with tape.

“It was.  He’s being intrusive.”

“Lovely.  So when do I get to meet the charming man in shadow?”

“I’ll have to assume sometime tomorrow.  I can only guess that he was made aware of our display out in the street.”

She over-zealously pouted, “Does this mean you’re breaking up with me?  Sad.  I didn’t like you anyway.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance as he taped the fellow’s head to the head rest and stabilized it in such a manner that he wouldn’t be able to turn left or right.  They each set to taping her wrists and elbows down.

“You keep rolling your eyes at me, Sherlock.  That just won’t do,” she said heaving herself to her feet.  “Honestly, you’re how old?  I’m twenty-five and don’t roll my eyes that often.”

He shot her a puppy-eyed, over-the-top pout with a shake of the head, _I recall doing this to John once_ as he stood up.   “Oh, can’t you appreciate me for who I am?”

She set her teeth on edge, “Keep it up and I’ll refresh that welt on the left side of your face.”

“You could try.  I won’t just stand there and allow you to hit me,” his voice challenged as humor filled his voice.

“Hmpf,” she touted loudly, “I don’t give up, Mr. Holmes.”

“Miss Byrnes, neither do I.”

He wrapped the blindfold around the still unconscious man and brought over a tray of goodies that her host had left them:  
Knitting needles, pens, water, lemon juice, gelatin – things that can mess with the mind of someone who can’t see.   
Shannon moved herself over to a support column and wrapped chain around it loosely and stood there.

Sherlock put his phone on silent before tossing it onto his coat and jacket on the floor.  He carefully rolled his sleeves up.  “My brother has given me five days to complete this case before he has you sent home.”  His face was hard and cold.  Try as he might to ignore it, she had grown on him quickly.

“Well then,” she said plopping herself next to her own tray of toys on the floor, (water gun filled with salt-water, leather belt, and rice,) “You and I will need to talk about the hallway sooner than later.”

He turned to stare at her with his lips parted, wondering if he should retort.  A pang of concern and vulnerability washed across his face and she caught it as she looked up.

“It’s not anything bad, Sherlock, please.  Don’t worry.”  Care filled her voice and her eyes were pleading with him.  “We’ll discuss like intellectuals, I promise.”

He nodded and heard the man stir lightly as he started to come to.  “Shall we?”

“It will be an Oscar-worthy performance, Spielberg!”

“Shut up,” he mocked as he moved behind the tied man.

She closed her eyes to gain her focus and started to cry.  The only difference between now and earlier, Sherlock noted, was that her cheeks did not flush.  _Interesting_.

“Hey, hey!  I heard them bring you in here,” she cried out in anguish.  She stared at Sherlock briefly before looking away to avoid laughing.  “Is there anyone else here?  Hello?!  Help me!”

Bingo.  The tied man grumbled and came to.  “Hello?”

“Oh, thank God!” she sobbed, “There was this guy and he tried to help me when I was drunk and it all happened so fast – are you okay?” she rattled the chain a little and scratched at the floor.

 “Yeah,” the man groaned, “I think so.  I remember getting hit, I think.  Ow – I can’t move.”

The paused in silence for a moment and rattled her chain, “What do you mean you can’t move?”

“I think I’m tied down to something; can you move?” the man asked.  Sherlock stood there silently, gathering information.  _American; Northeastern – more than likely New Hampshire._

“I can’t see – but I’m chained to a wall or something,” her sobs echoed loudly.  “I just wanted to go on vacation.  What’s your name?”

“Eddie,” he retorted firmly.  He was still testing out his limbs to see how much of a bind he was in.

“Eddie,” she whispered hurriedly, “listen, I heard them drag you in a long time ago.  I think we’ve been here a day.  There’s a man that comes in here.  He hurts me.  Just pretend you’re sleeping when he gets here.  You’ve got to hold onto that green light across the cape!”

“Why?” he asked with a note of fear in his dialogue.  His torso stiffened.

“He’ll do the same thing to you!” and she began to sob again.

The assailant began to breathe rapidly in a mild form of shock and struggled to get out.

“SHHHHHH” she whispered hoarsely.  She motioned for Sherlock to walk over to her after Eddie had ceased movement.  After he did so, she handed him the leather belt and rattled the metal abit.

“Now, I won’t ask you again, woman,” Sherlock directed his query to her with an odd Tennessee southern accent.  “Where is it?”

Shannon clasped her mouth in a moment’s hilarity and used her fit as a tool for her monologue, “I – I don’t – I don’t know what – “

*Crack*  Sherlock snapped the belt off the pillar.  She screamed out.  This went on for ten or more lashes before the salt water gun was pointed at Eddie and sprayed when the ‘whip’ recoiled.  The detective walked away and slammed the door at the opposite end of the room.

Shannon’s sobbing was beyond consolable.  _Oh, she’s good.  Maybe even as good as me._   An attentive look over to her signaled that she could continue as he began to memorize the events taking place.

“Are you bleeding?” Eddie asked, tasting the salt water that hit his face.

“I – I – might be,” she sniffled.  “It hurts.”

Sherlock had the sudden urge to grab her and kiss her.  _You’re a twit.  But she is so very cunning.  Look at the way she’s acting.  Precisely – she has command of her emotions and therefore could toy with you.  You’re a moron.  But she’s willing to talk about this objectively.  You want an answer for earlier in that hallway.  You’re still a moron._   He gained his composure and closed his eyes as he listened intently to their conversation.

“Listen, sweetheart, I know people.  They’ll be able to get us outta here.  But I need freed.”

“I – I can  – *sniffle* …I can try.  Just – keep talking.  I…it’s dark.”  She kept the chain in her hand as she ‘struggled’ to reach out to her cellmate.  She reached out to the other tray and grabbed a pen.  “I’ve got a pen … hang on.”

“That’s it sweetheart, that’s it.  Keep coming to me.  I’ll get you outta here.  What’s your name?”

“Shannon,” she stammered in disgust.  Sherlock’s eyes shot open and an impish smile unfurled on his lips.  “Shannon Byrns…”  She cocked her head to one side and pretended to saw at the man’s bindings.

His breathing caught momentarily after she said her name.  _Oh, you think you know who I am, fuck-wad.  You will find out who the fuck I am._   “That’s a lovely name, darling.”  She grimaced and pretended to vomit to her side.  Sherlock’s face was still amused.  “You sound like you’re from home!”

She slowly rolled her eyes and began to cry again.  “I want to go home!  I miss Boston!”

“Shannon,” the detained man said gravely, “DC O’Rourke sent me here to protect you!”  Her interest peaked.  _That’s right, fuck face.  Please, tell me everything._

“Sean sent you?”

“Yes,” he tried to move as she hastened her sawing, “Look: he thinks that there’s something in your head.”

She stopped and Sherlock slammed onto the door.  His eyes were rapt on her.  She nodded.  “Eddie!  Please, don’t let him hurt me anymore!”  She screamed like an animal, dropped the pen and began to cower.  Or so the captive thought.

Sherlock made an effort to have his steps resound loudly off of the floor as he made his was back over to them.  She did a quick motion to the gelatin on his tray and handed him the belt.

“You honestly think that you’re going to escape,” the detective’s southern drawl oozed with malice.  He handed her the bowl of gelatin and she mixed it with a handful of rice.  “Tsk, tsk, tsk – what have we here?”  He bent down and picked up the pen and threw it.  “No, no, no; that won’t do at all.”  He took the belt and started thrashing it against the column.  She squeaked, screamed and groaned; and, finally, she fell silent as Sherlock continued to attack the building.  Shannon flung the starchy gelatin at Eddie’s hands and neck with each pause of the belt.

Eddie cleared his throat when he felt that Shannon was unconscious.  “Look man, you and I are on the same side.”

“Really?”

Shannon slipped her trainers off and padded over to the chairs, dragging two over for her and the detective.  Sherlock took his and dropped it to the floor and dragged it.  Shannon sat directly before him while Sherlock sat to her left.  She crossed her leg high, and rested her hands on her knee.  The jovial attitude that she had been displaying not a moment ago while she was acting was completely dropped.  Her eyes were cold and calculating as she listened and watched intently.

“None of us know how many there are – and I figured that Boss’d send everyone he could spare considering she’s carrying around something that he wants.”

Shannon looked almost predatorial.  Sherlock surveyed her briefly.  _That, Sherlock, is a stunning specimen.  Stop fooling yourself.  She’s only testing you to manipulate you.  But she’s not._   “So I guess you heard that she took out two guys today.  How is it that I got the jump on her and the rest of you didn’t?”

Eddie motioned with his fingers, “She’s smart.  How up are you on the situation?”

“Not very; I was sent out here a month ago just as insurance.  Right before the brother.  Now, I don’t trust you yet – she’s got people on her side working for her… but I’m going to undo some of that tape as an act of faith.  Got it?”

“Fair enough,” Eddie agreed.  Sherlock stood up and unwrapped the binding around his head.  “Thanks, man.  Alright – so I don’t know how much coverage it got over here – but Boss had her brother dealt with.  You know he used to work for us, right?”

“Yeah.”

“But no one knew that he had been doing hypno-psycho shit on her for most of her life.”  Shannon’s nostrils flared in anger.  “He didn’t think anything about it at first.  But, he suddenly realized that she was basically a genius.  How do you contain a genius?”

“Make ‘em dumb?  So he hid her.”

“Yeah.  Something like that.  From what I understand, he would talk her to sleep just about every night, throwing a little more dirt on her to keep her hidden from herself because he was feeding her information.”

“But if she got dumb – how’d she get so smart?”  Shannon shot her partner a dangerous look which he was glad to ignore.

“I knew Matt.  He wasn’t an idiot.  Boss had some men threaten him once when Matt wanted out.  Matt ‘unlocked’ her somehow and was letting her figure it out herself.  He told me once that she would save him.  That worked out well.  Boss had him killed.  Only he didn’t know that Matt had told his sister to come to the house.  She was hiding and his execution was a key of sorts to fully open her memory.  
Boss and some of the upper-ups found her and tried to suppress it, I guess and it backfired.  She’s been hanging around cops and shit.  Then that fuck O’Rourke got a call from someone over here.  Word was that it was that Holmes freak.  But look, you can’t beat her to a bloody pulp.  She’s got to be alive.  Boss’d kill all of us is she wound up dead.”

“That’s what I don’t get,” Sherlock played dumb, “If she’s dead – then why does it matter?”

“Oh, he’ll kill her.  That’s for sure.  But there’s something in her head that he needs and he needs her alive for it.  It’s like there’s some information up there that he missed.  Matt had been collecting dirt on all of us.  It was like he was turning his sister into some kind of super-brain weapon.  She’s going to be unstoppable.  And you got her, man.  Boss’ll give you everything.  Shame about Matt and all, I didn’t want to kill him – Boss told me that if I didn’t do it, he’d come after me, too.”

Sherlock turned quickly to face Shannon, finally seeing her.  It was humbling.  He had been so mistaken: she wasn’t just intelligent; she was brilliant – she wasn’t just stunning; she was exceptional – she wasn’t just a pawn in this game; she was the queen.  Shannon held all the cards and at some point tonight, she had become aware of this before he had.  The unbridled rage that resided her eyes was nothing short of unparalleled.  _You should be leery of her actions.  Be concerned._   But he wasn’t.  Rage made her look almost like a statue – it was eerie.  She reached under her chair and unhooked a handgun while in the same fluid movement, reached forward to rip the blindfold off of Eddie’s eyes.

Eddie opened his eyes to see her sitting two feet before him with the gun pointed squarely at his face.  “Eddie, pleasure.”

Sherlock calculated the possible outcomes where she wouldn’t pull that trigger: they were few and there wasn’t many an option that didn’t involve him becoming an accomplice to murder.  The fury in her constant gaze had him unnerved.  She barely blinked and the predator was completely intent on her prey.  He was shocked.  _Genuine shock, you imbecile.  You should have checked the chairs or the rest of the room._   “Miss Byrns,” he warned falteringly.

Eddie looked upon her in terror.  He vehemently tried to free himself to get away to no avail.  “Stop moving, you simpering moron.”  The man froze; his chest heaved shallowly and quickly.  “You think that it was an absolutely incredible idea to come out here, after everything that you know about this cluster-fuck,” she spat over articulating her consonants, “And try to _cage_ me?”  Her eyes grew in emphasis; her voice like ice.  “Explain to me what you could possibly fear over me?”

Her leg still sat crossed, her left hand on her knee, her shoulders squared and her right arm perfectly outstretched.  “Miss Byrns, he has more information,” Sherlock stated plainly dropping his accent.

Eddie’s eyes began to tear, “Yeah!  Like that Boss is trying to get you out of the country in a few days! Something about you being on loan from Boston.”

Her breathing and heartbeat were agonizingly calm.  Sherlock’s wonder at their predicament was slowly elevating his blood pressure.  His mind was racing.  For once, he was struggling to keep up. _Normal people must feel like this all the time.  How awful.  This is humiliating._

“Who’s the mole in the police department?  Is it O’Rourke?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“That fuck wouldn’t roll his shield over.  We couldn’t get him,” Eddie gabbled as a tear fell from his eye.  “Look elsewhere.”

“I should shoot you, Eddie,” she muttered heartlessly, “Hammurabi would be proud.”

“But you won’t, that gun’s not loaded, Princess,” he growled.

“Oh?”  She pointed the gun to the ceiling and discharged it.  The men looked up and saw the bullet hole where a slug was now lodged into the concrete.  “You were saying?”  The gun slowly returned to its original position pointed at his face.

“Miss Byrns,” Sherlock’s voice grew louder.  “You can’t do this.  Not like this.  I will help you get every single one of them – but you cannot kill him!  You’re better than that!”  She stood up leisurely and closed the distance between her and her captive to dig the barrel into his forehead.  “Miss Byrns!”

The muscle in her lip jumped as she snarled, “You took everything from me.”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” Eddie screamed as he began to sob.

“Names, Eddie.  Keep up.”

Sherlock stood up quickly knocking his chair over watching Shannon work.  “Eddie, I –“

“Keep your mouth shut, Holmes,” she growled.

Eddie’s eyes widened in panic; he had some of the brightest people in the world standing before him.  One’s wrath was horrific and the other couldn’t seem to control the situation.  “Oh my God – We’re done…”

She clicked back the hammer, “Names, Eddie.”  He sobbed and urinated on himself.  “Now.  You could try begging.”

“Shannon!”

“FANTASMA!” he shrieked.

She cocked her head to the side and squinted as she pulled the trigger.  Instead of the resounding clap from earlier, only a small click was heard.  “Your boss should seriously consider better help – you’re a disgrace.”

Confusion.  That’s what that look was.  He should be dead.  She wiped the gun off with the small rag from under the chair and set it on the tray.  She quickly snatched up her trainers and put them on, tying the laces abruptly.  Her knee was sore.  _It could have been worse._   She stood up and looked at the man’s wet pants and pouted in disgust.  Her foot was propped up on the ledge of the chair between his legs. 

She leaned forward onto her knee with her arms crossed, “Thank you.”  She mock saluted, “The past day has been rather strenuous and tedious trying to connect as many dots as quickly as possible.  But your wonderful oration will no doubt be detrimental.”  Sherlock stood over her shoulder cool and collected.  “I do have to thank you,” she roughly patted his face, “You’re an idiot.  Your boss sent six men after me at once.  Still standing.  What made you so fucking cocky?”

Sherlock pulled his phone out and called Lestrade.  “Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes.  I have another stalker to add to your collection if you’d like to come collect him.  No.  No, he’s fine.  She didn’t have to defend herself much.  He’s tied up at the moment.  We’re leaving.  No.  He’s not going anywhere.  I’ll text you the address and the code to the door.  Consider it an early Christmas present – and an anonymous tip.”

“You’ve killed me,” Eddie’s eyes were a broken dam as tears flowed freely.

“And if you’re half as smart, you won’t say that you’ve seen me.  You’re welcome.”  She pushed her leg out as she watched the man free fall backwards onto his back.  Sherlock grabbed her elbow to indicate it was time to leave if they were to be undetected.  She grabbed the rag and tossed it to him as they rubbed away any and all fingerprints they had left, taking the rag with them as they made a quick exit into the dark.

As they quickly walked away, Shannon could faintly hear a mixture of sobs and psychotic laughter coming from within.  Sherlock quickly hailed a cab and they got in.  He promptly got a text from his brother.

 

_Sherlock:_

_Is he alive?_

_-MH_

 

Shannon snatched his phone out of his hands thoroughly annoyed at this man’s intrusive behaviour.

 

_Mycroft:_

_Fuck off.  :)_

_Sherlock:_

_How colourful._

_-MH_

 

He faintly grinned at their brief interaction after she had handed the phone back to him.  They sat beside each other in silence.  His forefinger brushed back and forth between his lips as he was deep in thought.  She caught the movement and watched him.  _Stop teasing, asshole._   She stared back outside and leaned her head against the car.

He saw her look at him and get disgusted, turning to stare outside.  Her neck was elegant and gorgeous.  He felt an odd impulse to reach out and touch her soft skin.  _You assume it’s soft.  But look at it, it is._   His brain was releasing chemicals again and he felt a mild haze fill his mind.  He looked out the other window to ignore it.

They both jumped when they realized that the blades of their hands were touching in the space between them on the seat.  Neither moved: who was weaker?  She looked up at him in puzzlement.  “Did you think I would have actually killed him?” her voice was soft and sincere.

“At one point, the number of outcomes where I was an accomplice to murder greatly outweighed the number where he lived.”

“I didn’t ask you for odds, Mr. Holmes,” she chided as she shifted to face him.  “I asked you what you thought.  It’s a simple yes or no.”

He frowned, hand still touching hers, “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“No.  I didn’t think you would – but reason was saying that you were going to.”

She nodded as the cab came to a stop in front of 221B Baker Street.  “Thank you, Sherlock.”  He blinked vacantly trying to remember what John had said about situations in regards to ‘Thanks’.  She leaned over and gently kissed his left cheek careful to not aggravate his now smaller welt.  She got out of the cab and paid the cabbie and walked inside.

“Oi, you getting out?” the cabbie asked looking in his mirror.

“Yes, that’ll be all.”  Sherlock stood there outside in the cool air and felt as if his face was on fire.  _What was that?!  What the bloody hell was that?  Look at what you’ve gotten yourself into, you prat!  What have you done?_   He quickly walked into the abode and tossed his coat onto the bannister.  She was already in her room.  He could hear her wince as she unwrapped her knee.  He climbed the stairs two at a time and went straight to the fireplace to light it and sat in his chair, (sitting on the back with his feet resting in the seat,) and closed his eyes.  _Mind palace.  Fantasma._


	14. Astriction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally - a little of what I'm sure you've been waiting for.

Expecting him to be puttering around or at least attempting to either sleep or do research, Shannon silently walked up the stairs in her tank top and basketball shorts to get to the kitchen.  She wanted a glass of water to keep downstairs.  She found, however, Sherlock Holmes sitting improperly on his chair motioning directions with his hands and eyes in silence.  John had blogged about this once.  She looked it up after reading that entry to see if Sherlock had just been pulling his leg.  But his _mind palace_ was actually based on the method of loci that the ancient Greeks and Romans used once upon a time.  His spatial awareness had to be through the roof: most people that were able to use this technique were incredibly gifted at using just a percentage more of their brains more efficiently than the rest of the population.  She used her synesthesia – he used a visual mnemonic device.  _Different strokes._   She grabbed a glass from the shelf and filled it with water from the tap not willing to chance whatever was in the water pitcher in the fridge.  She walked out into the parlor and sat in John’s chair to watch.  It wasn’t meant in a manner that he should feel like an animal at the zoo – she was genuinely interested to see how his mind worked.

An hour had gone by and she was beginning to grow tired.  She was forcing her body to accept the time change.  Having snatched up John’s laptop, she booted it up in silence, tried a few passwords, gained entry and remotely accessed her own laptop’s files from there.  In a hidden partition, she typed in the password and she had access to all the files that had been on her brother’s computer.

 _Control + F.  Keyword: Fantasma._  
Search Results:  0 Files  
  
Keyword:  Ghost.  
Search Results: 4 (Media) Files.  
Damn, only music files.  Might as well have a listen.

She listened to the four tracks that each had four separate colours and there wasn’t anything really linking them other than their subject matter, to an extent.

 _Control + F.  Keyword: Phantom._  
Search Results: 26 (Encrypted) Files  
Ooooooh.  Lovely.

Shannon clicked on the button to open the search results and looked at the twenty five files that had been in a hidden folder named Phantom.  Each file had a passcode.  After several failed attempts, she scrolled down the list and found a README.txt file.  Interesting – not necessarily something you would expect to find in a super-secret hiding spot.

She opened the files and looked at the massive lines of text.  There was a break every five or so lines, but it was overwhelming.  She sat there in silence as she studied the mass of numbers, letters, and symbols.  She was tired.  The not sleeping thing didn’t bother her – she’d done it for weeks at a time.  But her body was five hours behind.  She wanted to sleep – her lids were heavy.  She dozed off hugging John’s laptop.

He searched expertly through every room leaving no relatable information unturned.  He looked to his watch – _3:40_.  _That took less time than expected._   _Chattering.  Again_.  He looked to the couch, but she wasn’t there.  Before him, in the dark, he found her curled up holding John’s laptop shivering.  Frowning at the irony that he had just moved the blanket off of John’s chair earlier to the couch for her and now she was in John’s chair, he stood up stiffly and strode across the room to fetch the blanket.  As he opened it up and looked down to her, he noticed the whites of her eyes.

“You do realize that stalking your consultant isn’t permitted.”

“I wasn’t stalking you,” she stretched out achingly rubbing her knee and neck.  “I came up for water.  See?  And I assumed you were in your mind palace – so I watched for a while.  Then I needed my laptop, but John’s was good enough.  I remotely accessed my files.”  She took the blanket from him as she stood up, wrapped it around her body and sat back down.  “What did you find?”

“Outside of the miles of unrelated data – I think I found a government program.  It was from 2009 or so called Phantom, though I think it started before that.  It was a project would plant inoperative soldiers all over the world that could be activated with code words and such.  To be sure, I’ll need to hack into Mycroft’s computer and see if he has access to the US files.”

She blinked lazily with heavy lids.  “Or,” she opened up John’s laptop and pulled up her brother’s files, “You can look at what had been on my brother’s hard drive before the police took it.”  She turned the laptop round to show him.  “But, only after sleep.”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Yes you do, everyone does.  You choose to neglect yourself for the case at hand.  You won’t be doing that while I’m your client.  Quid pro quo,” she yawned with a sloppy smirk.

He frowned and changed tactics, “You kissed me.”

“I did,” she replied calmly.  “Your point?”

“Why?”

“Sentiment.”

“Is that all?”

“No.  If you really want to talk like adults now, fine.  But only as long as you get some sleep after.”

His eyes scanned every inch of her face.  She was concerned.   _About me?  Honestly_.  “You’ve known me for less than two days.”

“And?”

“Doesn’t society tell you that you’re rushing things?” he goaded.

She shrugged, “Does society accept high-functioning members of its populace for who they are rather than what they do?”

He glared at her.  “I find that love is a useless term that is casually thrown about to make others feel a false sense of security.”

“Fine,” she shrugged, “I never said that I loved you – now did I?  No.  I told you I would have an intellectual discussion with you about what happened in the hallway.  Judging by your stupor when you left, I’d say you were mirroring my own involuntary reactions.  Stop deflecting.”

“I’m not deflecting.  I’m simply stating that if you are indeed looking in that said direction; you will be sorely disappointed.  I do not conduct myself as such.”

She raised her brows, “You’re jumping into the deep end without not really knowing how to swim, Holmes.  I thought you wanted to discuss this intellectually.  But if you’re going to keep beating around the topic without so much as acknowledging that you also didn’t have control of yourself, go to bed.”

“No, I’ve far too much work to do.”

She stood up and invaded his personal space, “Now you look here, Sherlock Holmes; your brother shipped me out here against my will and has me living in the bottom room of this house so that I could amuse you in your boredom.  Here I am.  If you’re going to keep acting like a child; I’ll treat you as such – I’m a teacher, after all.  I know it’s _so_ hard to believe that I could possibly want to be a teacher and all.  But you heard our guest earlier – my brain is cracking itself!” she growled pointing into his chest.

“Enough,” he grumbled, “Don’t point at me.  You’re grating my nerves.”

She pushed him lightly, “Well excuse me!  I didn’t realize you were having such a bad day!  Oh, well, forgive me, _Your Highness_ , I didn’t realize you were stalked, assaulted, and hypnotized today, too!  Don’t be weak minded, it doesn’t suit you.”   She turned to John’s laptop and exited out of everything, closing her laptop off from the connection.

“That’s enough, Miss, Byrns,” he snarled.

“For fuck’s sake, Mr. Holmes, my name is Shannon,” she shoved past him to leave but he threw his shoulder into her.  “You don’t want to tempt me.”

His eyes were cool and challenging in the flickering orange light.  She tossed the blanket onto the chair.  “You’re pushing me; I’m not going to stand here and idly let you keep doing that.  No one ever is willing to put you into your place and that bothers you.  Everything is a giant authority brawl because everyone can see your dedication and those that can’t hear about it from others.  Is that how you plan to cope?”  His eyes flashed.

“Holmes, don’t,” she growled.  “Either be civil or I’ll drop you.”

“I highly doubt that you’d do that.  You wouldn’t want to chance injuring me,” he nagged as he shoved her shoulder.

Shannon moved with the push to upset his center of balance, pulling his arm forward more.  Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed her wrist, trying to peel her hand off of him.  The pair of them kept trying to get the upper hand.  She tried to roll his arm away.  _Oh, is that some judo that I see?  Fun._   She laughed internally at the realization that they looked like they were fighting in a scene from _The Matrix_.  She wrapped her leg behind his knee in an attempt to land him on his back, but he quickly recovered trying to do the same to her.

 _Right leg, slightly weaker.  Cause her to lose her footing, she will go to the floor._   He swept his leg behind her knee and pushed into her opposite shoulder.  She tumbled with little grace.  She wrapped a hand behind his neck and brought him down with her.  She hit the floor first, but by the time that he had fallen after her, she had rolled out of the way and was already crawling out into the open space of the floor.  He grabbed her ankle and pulled her to him which gave her the advantage to wrap herself around him, throw him, and then clamber onto his back.  _She’s being quiet.  John’s sleeping.  Probably best.  Damn it!_   He snarled as she dug her knees into his shoulder blades.  He twisted violently to buck her off before she could grab hold and had moved to pin her.

 _This is juvenile.  Are you seriously doing this, Shannon?  Are you five?  You’re in no shape to wrestle right now.  Obviously.  Does he not realize you’re an expert grappler?  Of course he does.  He’s not an idiot.  But he his strong.  Stronger than you realized.  You’re causing him to break a sweat.  Did you feel those muscles?  Girl, knock it off.  You’ve got a job to do._   She spun around on her back and wrapped her legs around his torso in a scissor lock.  She pushed up with her arms and dragged him away from the furniture.  “Are you done?” she huffed.  He struggled to reach out for her, but every time he flinched she would tighten her grip and throw him off balance.  “Are.  You.  Done?”

His eyes shot daggers at her as he wriggled his arm under her leg to pry her off.  _Careful, it’s her bad leg.  But that doesn’t matter, you’re trying to show off.  Her hair has fallen down and her cheeks are flushed.  When was the last time she grappled?  Her chest is heaving heavily.  Her stomach is visible.  I want to touch it.  I shouldn’t, I don’t let things like this get in the way of my work or my life._   He heard her grumble as he broke her vice grip off of his ribcage _She will have, no doubt, left a mark,_ and he leaned forward to throw her shoulders into the floor.

She felt her arms buckle behind when he lunged and her legs instantly moved down from his chest to his midsection, wrapping them expertly to help give her leverage.  Her arms were pinned up above her head as his face hovered above her own.  “I am not weak,” he whispered angrily, his chest moving steadily against hers.  He felt her gently squeeze against his midsection _How could I have missed that?  I’m not in control of this pin_ and he looked intently on her face.

“I never said that you were, Sherlock,” she whispered softly.  She felt the redness and heat trail up her face.  Even in the fire lit room, she was sure that it was apparent even if he failed to notice her heart quicken.  She could smell him: the culmination of him, his wash, and sweat was getting her drunk.  She turned her head to the side and stared at the fireplace.  “Are you done?”

He looked down at her slender neck and could see the hollows of it as she turned her face away.  Her pulse was higher and the haze was getting worse.  The chemical reaction was in full swing as he felt a growing tightness in his trousers.  He wanted things that he was usually able to ignore.  She was going to realize soon enough that she did, indeed have an effect on the primal parts of his mind.

His body tensed above her and she was soon aware that he wasn’t weak at all as she felt his sex digging into her buttock.  He tried to move away from her, but she held fast.  “We need to discuss this.”

“Chemical reaction caused by the rising and falling of pheromones from two or more parties.  It releases different chemicals into the blood steam–“

She turned to face him again, stern.  “Sherlock.”  He looked down at her and he saw reflected there darkness.  She lifted her head up gingerly and placed a feather-light kiss to his lips.  His hardened mouth slackened and he freed her hands.  The growing ache in her sex was aggravating.  She wanted desperately to sate it; _Timing_.  His body leaned into hers as he relaxed.  She slowly slipped one hand into his hair and the other to the nape of his neck and lifted herself off the ground.  She felt him return the kiss as it began to deepen.  In one fluid movement, she heaved her body to the right as she flipped their position.  His face hardened again as he tried to hide his astonishment.  Her grip around his torso relaxed as she sat carefully on his stomach.  Her forehead rested against his for a moment before she opened her eyes.  She pulled away and rested her forearms on his clavicle.  “We should discuss this; sooner rather than later.”

Here she was, sitting atop him and his body wanted more.  His mind however, was screaming at him to get a grip over himself and become the example of mind over matter that he had striven for.  She was quickly chipping away at his decorum.  His hands moved from her thighs to lay flat on the floor.  She kissed his forehead and awkwardly pushed herself up off of him.  Her lips were swollen, indicative that he had efficiently done a half decent job.  _Half decent?  You’re never half decent.  At anything.  She seems to be in a daze.  She’s open for surprise.  Half-decent … never._

She turned to walk down to her room when she saw his arm reach in front of her to close the door to the stairwell, pushing her and spinning her round.  His hands lay flat against the door, caging her in with his body.  “What are you doing?” his voice hoarse and sharp.

“Leaving,” she snapped.  Her hands were pushing into his chest, but he remained firmly in place.

“I thought we were having a discussion.  Let’s have that discussion you so aptly wanted.”

Her eyes sparked, “You and I both know that’s not a good idea right now, considering.”

“Considering what?  That you’re trying to avoid the discussion?”

He felt her fingertips fan across his trousers as she cupped him.  Her touch was light at first and firm as she stroked him through the fabric.  His body involuntarily pushed into her hand.

“Considering that I appear to have no chemical sway over you.  Timing, Holmes.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m not telling you that I don’t want to act on this impulse – because I do.  But timing.”

“My name is Sherlock.”

“I know.  Just not now.”

His lips parted as he digested what she had just said.  Her eyes were dilated and her breathing shallow.  Her fingertips were digging into his chest and she was looking everywhere but his face.  _You like it, admit it._   He pushed forward against her and claimed her lips tentatively.  She gasped softly as his hands reflexively moved to her face.  He groaned as her hands crawled up to his neck and her nails raked across his skull.  _Your neck is soft.  So is your face.  You are – how paradoxical that such an athlete is so soft. This kiss is addicting: I never want to stop.  Sherlock Holmes the Imbecile._ He greedily deepened his kiss as his tongue parted her lips.

His hair felt wonderful between her fingers and he groans as her nails raked across his skin.  The man tasted like lightning and had her body humming.  _Moving fast?  You think so?  How many other people in this world can appreciate your mind and manner of thought as well as he can?  And look at the two of you.  You were just interrogating a man four or so hours ago.  Two days ago you were at home, going through the motions.  What are you doing with your life?  Do not be so brash just to compensate for your insecurities or the way you feel about what you’ve learned about Matt.  Oh, but he is so very good._ She stroked his tongue with hers as she delved into every crevice of his mouth.  She could drown and die right now, not knowing the answers to her brother’s death.  She had had a taste of the great Sherlock Holmes and he was so much more than she could have ever imagined.  His body; flush with hers, radiated heat off of it that seemed to meld them together.  Oh, yes, they were both aware of how very much they affected each other.  He pulled away to get air and their chests heaved in time, dazed.  She rested her forehead to his shoulder letting her hands fall to her sides.  His hands rested on her shoulders.

“Not now, Sherlock.”  She kissed the side of his neck and slipped out of his grip, walked around to the kitchen and exited out the door to the left.  She wobbled uneasily down the stairs to make an effort not to wake the other members of the house.  Her already sore leg had its bandage half ripped off and her knee, upon further inspection, had some glorious bruising on it.  She quietly closed her door behind her and collapsed onto her mattress.  There were sheets on it now.  Mrs. Hudson really was too kind.  She quickly shimmied out of her clothing and wrapped herself up in the sheet.  Her hands drifted downward to her sex where she could immediately feel the wet arousal.  She was sensitive and frustrated.  She began to rub her clitoris to a frenzy and she was able to climax quickly.  Her body tensed up as the pressure was released and waves of mild satisfaction flooded through her.  _He would have been better.  But it’s not appropriate.  Have you looked at that man?_   She rolled over, the soft sheet touching every inch of her exposed skin, and she nodded off to sleep.

Sherlock stood there frozen for an indiscernible amount of time.  His mind was blank.  _Blank? Not necessarily.  You’ve just let the primal-self awaken after such practiced restraint and years of dedication go out the window.  My mind’s not blank.  I want to have her take care of this tightness in my trousers.  I want her to wrap those legs about me again and feel her move around me.  I don’t understand – it’s never been like this before.  Damn you, you arrogant, ignorant, naïve ass.  She’s impressed you.  You admire that blasted woman and now you’ve paid for it.  Your defenses have weakened.  You will fix this.  Focus on the case.  Focus.  Get a grip._ He painfully adjusted his trousers and began unbuttoning his black shirt as he made his way to the shower.  He let the cool water wash over him as he dropped a hand to his cock and indulged himself.  It didn’t take long for his climax, _That’s annoying; I haven’t had the impulse for this in quite some time_ , and he leaned against the walls of the shower.  He groaned audibly at his actions while they replayed in his mind.  He scrubbed quickly and went straight to bed, not the least bit abashed at the fact his towel was in his room.  She wouldn’t be coming back upstairs anytime soon.  He looked to his watch for the time:  4:33 AM.  _Magnificent._


	15. The Frog of the Bow

John awoke naturally before his alarm would go off at 5:30, and he quietly turned it off before swinging his feet to the floor.  He heard the pair of them make a small amount of noise when they got in.  _No doubt she was trying to keep him quiet.  He isn’t that considerate._   _That was late.  He honestly didn’t force her to be out that late, did he?  He and I’ll be having a chat later._   He went to the shower and found Sherlock’s black shirt and trousers on the floor.  _For God’s sake, we have guests.  Why can’t you ever get ready for the shower in your room?_   He bent over and picked up the articles of clothing, throwing them at Sherlock’s door.  He turned on the water and quickly got ready for work.  He peered in the mirror to look at his well-rested face.  _I’ll have to thank her for the needed sleep_.  _And apologize for him._   John dressed, packed a quick lunch and left to go to work. He was going in early today because he and Sherlock had a prior commitment in the afternoon.   As he passed her door, he could hear her snoring softly.  He thought about knocking for a brief moment but felt it best to let her sleep considering her day yesterday and the fact that Sherlock had kept her out all night.  _Git._  
Around 9:30, John had finished a patient at the clinic and texted Shannon.

 

_Shannon:_

_Hope you’re rested._  
 _I’ll reprimand Sherlock when I get home._  
 _I’ll need to check your dressings._  
 _Text if you want me to bring dinner home._  
 _He can sod off._

She stretched lazily out on the mattress.  Her phone was buzzing against the floor rather loudly.  She reached ineptly for the device before she finally found it.  It was a text from John.  She read it and instantly guffawed – loudly; a little louder than she would have liked.  It sent her into a fit.  _If he had any idea.  Christ._   Her mind kindly sent her little snippets from her morning with Sherlock.  She had to admit, he was handsome and she was inescapably attracted to him.  However – the two of them would have to discuss a few things before she’d allow that to progress.  Besides, she only had three more days after today to figure out all of this shit.   
She stretched out again before standing up.  _Bathroom.  Definitely bathroom.  That’s the beer calling_.  She often slept in only her knickers and Andy was seldom home in the mornings because he was generally on call in the ER.  She was quite used to striding around in nothing more.  It didn’t cross her mind that walking out nearly stark naked to go to the bathroom upstairs would be a problem.  She heard John leave early and Mrs. Hudson had left an hour or so ago.  Sherlock Holmes would, most likely, still be sleeping.  She opened the door and groggily climbed the steps.  Why the bathroom was beside Sherlock’s room – she’d never know.  But it did slightly make sense since the common space was on the same floor.  But still.

She walked into the kitchen twisting back and forth to wake her back up.  Her side was still sore.  _Oh, that’s right – I was only attacked yesterday.  Yesterday was eventful_.  She walked into the bathroom to relieve herself, _Thank you, God, for simple pleasures like relieving my bladder,_ and washed her hands.  She looked up into the mirror and finally read the state she was in.  All things considered, she looked well rested.  Her face was largely unscathed.  She pulled her arms up over her head and stood up on her toes.  Her side, however, looked angry.  That would take a while for those bruises to dissipate, and who knew how long it would take for the bruised ribs to stop aching this time.  She looked down to her knee and took note that, regardless of the bruising, it didn’t hurt that bad.  The side of her calf, however, looked awful.  The red and puffy skin was sensitive.  She groaned as she peeled the last of the bandage off and lifted her leg to the sink.  _Well, you’ve had yourself in more awkward positions…_   She contorted to reach her leg and began to scrub it.  _That stings like a bitch_.

“Shit,” she hissed through gritted teeth.  She had scrubbed at some of the beginnings of scabs and lathered soap into the wound.  She breathed like an expectant mother to try and push past the pain.  After washing in off, she took the hand towel and wrapped it around her injury.  She took a step forward and slipped on some water, crashing down onto her bottom with a thud and a curse.  
“FUCK.  Owwwww…” and she began to laugh at herself.

She didn’t hear Sherlock outside until he groaned, “Unless you’re dying, I’m not coming in there.”

“Go away,” she growled in between laughing at her clumsiness as she rubbed her bottom.

“I live here, or did you forget that?”  He retorted.  “Hurry yourself up.”

“ _Hurry yourself up,_ nag, nag, nag,” she sassed.  “Geez.  You were snoring ten minutes ago.”

“You were obnoxiously loud.”

“You’re still not going away.”

“I’m waiting.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled the red dressing gown off the door hanger and slipped into it.  She tied the belt loosely around her waist and opened the door.  He was shirtless and staring down at her plainly.

“Glad to see that you thought to be modest since there’s a new person in the flat.”

He frowned, puzzled.  “I did, I put my sleeping trousers on.”

 _Wonderful.  The man you’ve got a serious hard on for sleeps in the nude.  Time to exit stage right._   “How kind.”

She pushed past him to go back downstairs.  “That’s mine.”

She stopped and froze in place, “No.”

“But, it’s mine,” his palm was outstretched and open to her.  She turned around and his face was stoic.

“No.”  She crossed her arms in front of her as he got closer to her still with a waiting hand.

“My others are dirty,” he replied coolly.  “I was going to wear it.”

“Great.  But no.” 

She turned around to walk away and got so far as the table, “Stop.  Sit down.”

She looked at him befuddled and noticed his gaze on her leg.  “I’d like to photograph that and monitor its various stages of healing.”

“That won’t matter if your brother’s still planning on sending me home,” she said, taking a seat at the table.  He grabbed his camera out of his room and returned, grabbing her leg up and awkwardly positioning it on the table.  “I’ll just stand then,” she muttered as she felt like he was ripping her leg out of place.  He took some photographs at various angles and wrote down notes on one of his pads.

“You just got done cleaning the wound again, yes?”

“Clearly.”

Her tone annoyed him this morning, “Bothering you, am I?”

“Just a tad, my leg is still rather sore.  Recovering, and all that.”

He kept writing and looking at the wound, “It’s research.  You understand.”

“I do,” she replied calmly.  “But research doesn’t dictate how high your other hand should be on my leg.”

He stopped to stare at her and then to his own hand, realizing hit was wrapped gingerly above her knee.  Her odd contorting had caused the robe to reveal a plunging neckline, _Indicative that she is naked_.

“You’re not dressed.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she scoffed.  She noticed that his hand had not moved.  “Either keep researching or I’m going to go get my things for a shower.  We have work to do.”

His eyes were hungry, “In a moment.”  His face was calm and relaxed.  She was analyzing every move he made.  He should feel self-conscious, but he did not.  His mind worked just as quickly as hers.  His hand dragged back down to her calf, fully appreciating the soft skin that moved underneath his fingers.  She shivered and elicited goose bumps.

“You’re done now,” she smirked evilly as she pulled her leg down.  “I’m getting a shower, so do your business now or you’ll be waiting a while.”

She left silently and went back downstairs.  She grabbed her towel and wrapped it around her instead of the robe and nabbed her soap and such.  When she returned, Sherlock was making his way out of the bathroom and stood in her way.  She tossed his robe over his shoulder, “There you go, Sparky, I’m giving you your stuff back.”

 _The dressing gown looked good on you, but that towel does your form no justice aesthetically.  It makes you look blocky.  I do not like it._ He nodded and kept staring at her.

“That’s when you say thank you.”

“I do?”

“Close enough.”

She brushed past him and closed the shower door behind her.  _So that’s what’s under those suits.  Lovely.  And his chest hair is so light.  Interesting._ The warm water felt exquisite as she scrubbed herself clean.  The shampoo was something citrusy – not necessarily something she’d choose normally; but, it did the trick.  She washed her face quickly and stepped out of the shower with caution since she slipped earlier.  She towel dried quickly and replaced her hand towel on her wound, wrapped the towel around her torso and collected her things.

She opened the door skillfully while juggling the various bottles to hear Sherlock on cue, “You can leave your things in there for now.  We don’t have time.  Lestrade called.”  She groaned, ignored him and padded towards the door.  “I also texted John.  He’s indicated your wound needs redressed.”

“And?”  She turned around to see him in another pair of dark trousers with an off bluish-white button down covering his torso.

“It makes more sense to do so before you put on your jeans.”

“How do you know I didn’t bring a skirt?”

“You didn’t.”

“I don’t want to know how you know, nor do I care.”  She stomped over to John’s chair, unloading her armful of shower things there.  Sherlock motioned with his head to stand beside him.  He knelt down as she flexed her calf to the side.

 _Her wash has a spice to it.  It fuses with the smell of her well.  It’s warm.  I like it.  I like the citrus.  Sherlock, stop thinking about her and concentrate, you twat._   He expertly opened the fresh dressing packed he had fetched from John’s kit in his room and applied the clean gauze to cover the wound.  He taped it quickly taking into account that she should have maximum mobility with minimum discomfort.  His hands smoothed the tape around her leg.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” she said humbly.  He stood up and looked at her.  His eyes started at her wet hair and moved to her eyes.

“You’re welcome.”

“WELL PRAISE TO GOD, HE KNOWS HOW TO BE POLITE!” she hollered with a smile.  She collected her things and headed downstairs again to get dressed.

He picked up his violin annoyed at her sassy mood today, and began playing.

She actually took less time to get ready that John did, he noted, as she reappeared in the same jeans from yesterday that were leaving little to the imagination, and dark red button-up cotton blouse.  Her hair was pulled up into a twisted ponytail of sorts.  He turned to stare at her, holding the violin up with his shoulder and chin.

Her sleeves were rolled up above her elbows and as she was finishing her left arm, “Sorry.  I don’t like shirts touching my forearms...it annoys me a little.  I know it’s bizarre.”  She looked up and shook her head.  “No, no…not that way.  You’ll destroy your neck that way,” she waltzed over to him and grabbed the neck of his violin, and maneuvered it slightly.  “There.  That should be better.  And what is that?” she gasped looking at his bow hand.  She picked it up gently and repositioned his fingers on the bow.  Her devoted intent to the craft she had spent so much time and energy on automatically flowed from her.

Her hands were gentle and commanding as she placed his fingers in the correct position.  After she realized that doing so now was a lost cause because they would be leaving, she stopped and apologized.  “Sorry – I didn’t mean to…”

“Of course you did,” he replied warmly, inhaling her perfume, “You’re a musician and you’re a teacher.  It’s a nervous tick for you.”  His face showed little to no expression, but his voice gave him away.  _That perfume and her shower gel…oh God._ John walked through the door unexpectedly as she held his hand.

“Got done early at the – oh…Sorry…er….”

“No, no, John,” Sherlock chastised, “She was just commenting on how awful my form and hand positions are when I play.  It’s very professorial of her.”

She knew that he was saying such to throw off Dr. Watson.  She gathered that John would tease Sherlock mildly if he found out that there was a possibility of attraction.  It would be done in jest – but still, the verbiage struck her coldly.

“He’s going to destroy his hand and neck if he doesn’t play the way he’s supposed to,” she growled.  Sherlock’s eyes locked with hers quickly and saw her annoyance.  She turned and rolled up her pant leg to reveal Sherlock’s handiwork.  “Please tell me he did well enough that I won’t have to amputate, Doc.”

John laughed and nodded, “I’m sure he did fine.  He pays attention to details.”  She rolled her pant leg down again and stood up.  That low neckline suited her just fine.  “Now, Sherlock!  Why did you drag her out so late last night?”  He spun around wagging a finger at the taller man.  “After everything that she’d been through yesterday and you kept her out all morning!”

Shannon covered her face to wipe her smile away.  She crossed her arms and gave a fake pout.  John looked back to her and then back to Sherlock and continued to lay into him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and set his violin down, “I’ll have you know, John, she dragged me to a pub before closing and then ensnared another stalker that we gift-wrapped for Lestrade last night.  I didn’t find it necessary to wake you up considering that she’s been so gracious to remind me to be considerate over the course of the morning.”  _Subtle._

John stared at her bewildered, “Your text did make me laugh.  Really hard,” she offered as penance.

“I can’t believe you two!”

“Did you enjoy the sleep?”

“Yes, but – “

“Then don’t worry about it.  Here we are.  So, now that you’re home, you’ll be going with us to see Lestrade, right?” she probed hopefully.  “I need a babysitter.”

She turned and walked into the kitchen.  “What is she doing?” John asked, to which Sherlock shrugged.

She opened the fridge and moved to the counter, made some turkey sandwiches and returned to hand one to each gentleman.   “Quid pro quo, boys,” she chuckled as she stuffed her face.  She trotted down the stairs with the boys in tow.  Sherlock bit into the sandwich and grabbed his coat and scarf on the banister as he slipped the articles of clothing on.

He scowled at her as he ate his sandwich quickly.  John grinned slyly, “This is the most you’ve eaten on a case, ever.”

Shannon flagged a taxi down as she stood up on her toes.  She didn’t avert her gaze from the car, “That’s because he realized this morning that it’s no use to argue with me.  He’ll participate or I’ll quit.”

A black jaguar pulled up behind the taxi.  John groaned, “Why?”  The trio stood there in silence when the woman from within stated that the car was for Shannon.  “Seriously?  Why would Mycroft want to see her?”

She could feel Sherlock tense behind her; his fingertips resting at the small of her back.  She turned around and made eye contact with each of them, “Boys, I’m off to see the wizard, it seems.  Don’t disappoint.  I’m sure I can convince the driver to drop me off at the Yard when I’m through.  I’ll text you.”  John nodded and ducked into the cab to let the driver know where they were going and she looked back to Sherlock.  “I’m not leaving yet.  We have much to discuss.  Save some fun for me, will you?”

The one side of his face flashed a smile and he slid into the cab with John and they drove away.  She turned to the blonde, got into the car, and sat there in silence.  They ended up at an abandoned factory.  She was motioned to walk into the building to the second floor and find her host.


	16. And So Enters the Frost Man

In a large, dusty room on the second floor, two chairs sat facing each other.  She walked over to the closest one and leaned on the back and waited.

“You will find, Miss Byrns, that there is no such thing as too cautious when dealing with my younger brother,” the tall man announced as he walked out from behind a large piece of machinery.

“Mr. Holmes the elder, I presume,” she stated looking up.  “How wonderfully obtuse of you.”

“Yes, well, I could say the same about you.  Your vocabulary certainly is _remarkable_.  Please, sit.”

She walked around the chair and sat down.  He was a little taller than Sherlock and his hair wasn’t as dark.  This man had a few years on the detective.  “I find it remarkable that you care so deeply about your brother to constantly monitor him from afar.”

Mycroft conceded the comment, “We each have our own way for expressing concern.  My baby brother has always kept those of us that care on our toes.  He has self-destructive methods.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.  But he’s done marvelously well in the past thirty hours or so.  I’ve been put under hypnosis, twice,” she retorted smugly.  “Your brother may just be able to help me figure out the pieces of my life.”

“So your little tiff in the street was nothing then?  I’ve seen the way that he’s looked at you.”

“Is that so,” she glowered.  “Please, do tell.”

“It’s not a look that you or I would consider _romantic_ in any sense; in fact, it’s more of a conceded admiration.  You’re quite bright, Miss Byrns; you’re a shiny new toy to a child.  He’s interested for now.  He gets bored.”

She sighed, bored, “I’m very much aware, Mr. Holmes – you did put me in that abode, remember?  I recall you being the one who brought me here.  So, I would take care with whom you patronize.”  Her voice was icy.  “I’m not amused.”

“You forget that your local government has announced that you’re to be home by the end of the week-“

She interjected, “ – and you won’t be doing that, Mr. Holmes.”  His face was puzzled.  “Oh come on, you didn’t honestly think that Sherlock and I were going to interrogate my stalker and not get information from him, did you?  Tsk.  The Holmes brothers are not the only intellectuals in London, sir.  Now, you will sit there and you will listen.”

He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise, “Will I?”

“Would you like me to tell you exactly where you’ve been in the past twelve hours or are you going to concede that I’m very…very smart and that I have a nasty score to settle?”  She grinned and crossed her leg.  Mycroft stared at her icily.  “See, your brother has that gaze too, but it’s not been directed at me yet, so you can stop that.  Let’s start with the fact that I know you were in Munich because the lapel of your jacket…”

“Enough,” he barked, his eyes dangerous.  “I will sit here, and I will listen.”

 

Sherlock’s phone sounded.  He expected a message from Shannon soon.  Mycroft was keeping her, perhaps to spite him.

 

_Sherlock:_

_This infernal woman won’t be leaving at the end of the week._   
_I encourage you to move along quickly._   
_She’ll be with the pair of you presently._

_-MH_

_Mycroft:_

_Satisfied?_

_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_No is too polite a word._

_-MH_

_Sherlock Holmes:_

_Well, your brother certainly was festive.  
I think we’re well on our way to being best friends._

_Shannon Byrns:_

_Your presence is expected at the Yard.  
Move along._

_-SH_

 

Lestrade groaned, “Are you paying attention, Holmes?”

“Of course, you just said that the most recent guest concerning Miss Byrns has resigned to being a simpering idiot; no doubt suffering from a psychological break, and that the rest of the feeds came in last night.  While you were being droll, my brother’s been put into a delectably foul mood and Miss Byrns is on her way,” he said pocketing his phone.  “Please, continue.”

John rubbed his face to try and hide his smirk.  It was always a joy when Sherlock was being an honest ass.  Shannon walked into the office in a huff, “Sorry, someone didn’t get my text asking which office.”

Sherlock chuckled and looked at John, who looked bewildered as he fished his phone from his pocket.  “I’m sorry, Shannon.  But you were texting Sherlock, why didn’t you ask him?” he said confused.

“Because he would have ignored it or told me the wrong office; he can be such a dear,” she countered.  “Detective Inspector Lestrade, long time no see.  I hear you had an anonymous tip last night.  How beneficial for you.  Did you learn anything new?”

John and Sherlock now stared at greying man.  He shifted uncomfortably, “Not from him, no; he keeps crying and sobbing in his cell and talking about some ghost.  He’s cracked.”

John looked between the other flat mates and then back to Lestrade. Their faces complimented each other with mock innocence and ignorance.  It was terrifying.  _How can they feed off of each other so well?  What the hell did they do yesterday?_   “Right, you said that the rest of the feeds came in from the Tesco, yeah?  Let’s see them.”

They four of them left Lestrade’s office and headed to the digital room.  They took seats on rolly chairs, (which Shannon spun herself around in,) and waited for the feeds to come up.  The assistant accessed the files and stepped out to give them privacy.  Every angle of the store showed up on the huge screen before them, about fifteen in total.  Lestrade pressed play and they each began to dissect the feed.  It was in total about fifteen minutes worth of tape.  Shannon wrote notes on a piece of paper she picked up off of the desk.

“Stop,” she commanded, getting up closer to the screen.  “The man in the back, he’s got a tattoo on his forearm.”

“Yes,” Lestrade agreed, “Sherlock noticed it yesterday, we have our analyst cleaning it up.”

“Don’t worry about it; it’s a ghost that has a viper bursting through its chest.”

Lestrade had been examining her behind when she got up, but now looked to her stunned.  “You can see that?”

“No, I have seen it before,” she turned around and started drawing on his clipboard.  “What is this?  Tsk tsk,” she chided flipping the doodle he had been drawing over.

Sherlock remained placid.  _Oh, clever.  So clever.  That’s it, Sherlock, keep giving her compliments that will only further prolong your inevitable misery.  Please.  This worked so well last time.  You’ve had that body wrapped around you.  And look at how that turned out.  Stop it.  Enough – she’d prefer if you focused on the case and not her ass—ets_

She handed the clipboard over to the men and began touching the screen, “Six….why six?”  She turned to look at the men, “Isn’t that odd?  It’s not six.  Not six.  I need my mp3 player.  Damn it.”  She pulled out her phone and searched for songs that she knew held specific colours to her.  She played two, cursed at the device, and then worked on buffering the third.  “Play the tape some more.”

Lestrade obliged and continued the video.  John became a little on edge, “Shannon, calm down – don’t work yourself up.”

“I’m working,” she spat.

“You think there’s another stalker that we’ve missed?”

“Quite.  There were the two that I took out at the market.  Then there’s,” she looked to Sherlock, “the one from the anonymous tip that was described to me who matches the description of the guy here.”  She pointed to the front screen.  “That leaves three guys.  One of which quit following me as I entered the building.  So that’s two unaccounted for.  But doesn’t it seem a little out of sorts that now all of the sudden they’ve decided to be smart?  Where’s the handler?  These guys are morons.  Seriously.”

She spun around on her heel to stare at the feeds.  Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C# minor began booming from her phone and she placed it closer to her ear.  “Rewind it.”

Sherlock and John stood beside her now as she backed up to take all the feeds into consideration; John mesmerized at watching her mind spin.  She closed her eyes and focused on the music.

“He could be any one of them,” John added in frustration as the men looked at the video.

“This piece lasts just over three and half minutes, shhhh, I have a deadline,” she snapped.  “Don’t talk.  …and it’s a she.”

Sherlock leaned over, “Her version of a mind palace.”

“Shhhh!” she barked.

Her face scrunched as she concentrated.  “Where were you when I heard you?  How could you have known? Where are you?”

Sherlock now looked for people with audio devices, but that could mean anything now.  Christ, she was using her phone as a media player.

“Tempo Primo…I can hear you.  Where are you!?” she growled.  Her eyes shot open.   “Rewind it 26 seconds.  Second column – near the registers…”

Greg did so as the song quietly came to a close.  “There,” Sherlock pointed at a woman.  “There’s your handler.”

The final c# minor chord sounded and she examined the woman.  She looked oddly familiar, as if she was from a dream.  The red-head never turns to look at the cameras and leaves before the Scotland Yard boys are knocked unconscious. No one said a word to her.

“Recognize her?” Lestrade asked, hopeful.

She shook her head, “No, not wholly, anyway.  I should know her.  She looks so familiar.”

Sherlock nudged John and they left the room silently.  Shannon stared ahead, “Detective Inspector, I know I have no real right to ask this; but I’m going to...”

“Yes,” he interjected.  “Of course, I’d love to.”

She turned to look at him, “I didn’t finish.”

“You were going to say get a cup of coffee, right?” he winced.

“No,” she smiled, “I will, however take a rain check.” She turned back to the video feed watching herself fight.  “Can I speak to your latest intake concerning my case?”

“You’ve got some balls,” he goaded.

“More than your department, I’d wager.   But I need to ask him something.  Off the record.”

“No way,” he grumbled, “I’ve already got to deal with enough flack because of him getting more cart-blanche than he should have.  I’m not about to get second wind today.”

“Please?” the single tear fell from her eye.

John looked on from the window, “Oh you can’t be serious?  You’re just going to let her manipulate Greg?”

“I’m not letting her do anything,” he scoffed.  “She’d do it regardless.  I’m just making the work easier.”

“Brilliant,” he muttered sardonically.  “The two of you are getting a talking to when we get back.”

“Hooray.”

Shannon left with Lestrade not a moment later and found Eddie’s cell.  He could guarantee a minute or two of blackout, but nothing more.  She crept to his cell and sat on the ground.

“Eddie,” she whispered, “You and I need to talk.  And be quick, I don’t have the time.”  He shrieked at her and cowered away.   She saw his eyes were bloodshot.  Contacts? _Maybe.  His nose looks lovely, though_.

“You have no idea, do you?!”

“Listen, genius; I already know about Phantom – so let’s move ahead, shall we?  What did Matt say to you about what was done to me?”

“No, no, no, no…” he trailed off.

She groaned.  “Fine.  Who is she?”

He stopped and cried out, “If you want to live, leave her alone!”

“Good thing I haven’t been given a reason to be dangerous,” she snarled, “Who is she!”

“You already know,” he wailed, “You already know!”  He rocked back and forth and closed himself off from the other people on the opposite side of the bars.

Greg offered his hand to help her up off the floor, which she gladly accepted.  “Let’s go.”  He ushered her with his hand at her back down the hallways and out to the office. 

When they appeared, Sherlock could observe her frustration in the manner in which she had set her mouth.  She would be agitated.  _Lestrade, stop touching her.  You haven’t earned the right to touch her._

“Now,” Lestrade elbowed her side jovially, “You can expect that I’ll collect on that coffee.”

“I’m sure you will,” she smiled warmly.

John looked at her attentively and she rolled her eyes.  “So, what now?  Go and see if we can get information out of the other three stalkers?”

“You better not, that’s not your job,” Lestrade warned.

At that moment, Sergeant Sally Donovan walked off of the elevator to make her way to her desk.  Sherlock’s back faced her. “Oh look who it is, the Fr –“ she seethed.  Before she could finish her statement, Shannon leaned backwards into view casually and shot her a mischievous glare.

“Sergeant Donovan, good morning,” she said all too sweetly.  “But judging by your expression, I don’t think it’s too good for you.  You look tired.  Up a lot last night?”

John snorted loudly and covered his mouth to hide his immense grin.  Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder, analyzing the officer’s state.

“Of course you were up last night,” she continued berating.  “How’s everything fairing since?”

Greg looked to John in befuddlement; John shook his head quickly.  Donovan squared her shoulders off and puffed her chest out.  “I should have you detained for that.”

“Come now,” Sherlock moaned, “everyone standing here knows that you have no grounds to do that.  Even John knows that.”  John quickly pouted and glared up at his friend.

Shannon looked to Lestrade, “I’m sure one of them will give you my information, Detective.”  She shook his hand and made her way to the elevator.  “Sergeant,” she acknowledged coolly with a two-fingered salute as she passed.

Sherlock walked past in silence and John bit hit cheek, “Little hot in here, no?”  Donovan’s scowl and salty mood remained in place for the rest of the day.

Outside, John piped up, “So, now what?  We going to go and bait another stalker or something?”

“I’ve got a lunch date with Molly, so you two are going to be on your own doing super sleuthy boyfriend stuff,” she jibed to John with a hearty laugh.  “And if you boys go home, you can grab my laptop out of my room.  Matt’s passcode is Polaris Ganymede.  One word, all lowercase.  Getting into my laptop, on the other hand, will take some effort.  I’m not helping you with that.”  She flagged down a cab and looked around.  “I do love London, all things considered.  It looks so much better than Boston – or home.”

“And where is home?” John asked.

“Tsk, tsk,” she wagged her finger, “Not telling.”  She handed Sherlock her drawing and grazed her finger across his thumb, “I expect you to at least make a conscious effort to finding the designer of this tattoo.”

With a subtle nod and a look to their hands, he folded the paper and put it into his pocket.  She got into the cab and sped away to the hospital to pick up Molly.  John looked to Sherlock, “I saw that.”

“What was that,” he asked looking over his friend’s head.

“That.  That little moment.  I saw it.  You can try to lie to me all you like, but I saw it.”

They began walking up a block to catch a taxi, “You’re imagining things, Doctor Watson.”

“Now I know that’s a lie.  You think she’s marvelous.”

“Of course.  She’s far less boring that the rest of you – she can keep up.”

“I hold my own, thank you,” John faux-scowled.  “Besides, I saw you look her over in the digital room.  You like more than her head.”

“John, that’s vulgar,” he commented flagging down their transport.  “If I wanted to hear you talk in such a manner, I would have read some more of your emails.”

They got in and sat in comfortable silence for their ride.  John looked over at him, “We have to go to the gallery; you’re being presented with an award.”

“I don’t want to; it’s ridiculous – before my blogger came along, no one seemed to be actively interested in me unless they genuinely were giving me a case.”

“You hoped I would forget, that’s why I got done at the clinic early,” he chastised.  “Just get it over with.”


	17. Jacob Have I Loved, but Esau Have I Hated

Shannon walked with Molly beside her to The Viaduct Tavern, because of its proximity to her home and office.  She had pulled the graveyard shift and was absolutely exhausted.  “Dinner or breakfast is on me,” Shannon commanded, “You look starved.  And no arguing.  Mr. Holmes does enough of that.”

Molly smiled meekly at Shannon’s dominant personality and at the mention of his name.  “He has a way.”

“Tell me about it,” she groaned as they got situated.  They both ordered and Molly grimaced.  “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing – I just probably smell like the morgue…sorry,” she murmured.  “I didn’t shower before now – I had to cover until the relief came in.”

“Doesn’t bother me,” she offered with a smile, “Besides, I’ll beat whoever says a word.  I’m a bit of a bad ass, you know.”  She laughed.

Molly gave up a loud giggle, “I heard through the grapevine what happened yesterday.  Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she acknowledged as she sipped her beer, “The other guys, not so much.”

“I wish I could be like you,” Molly said aloud, unintentionally with a sigh.  Shannon’s subtle confusion was noticed, “Sorry – didn’t mean to say that out loud.  But…er…you are just so much…and strong and smart…”

Shannon looked up at her adoringly, “Oh, Molly Hooper, you shouldn’t ever want to be anyone but yourself.  Truly.  There are days where I sit and actually think about who I am and it makes me ill.  I can’t stand myself.  But you, dear…you are so much more than you give yourself credit for.  I look at you and I see hope.”

“…okay…?”

“Seriously,” she continued.  “I think there’s more to Molly Hooper than meets the eye; and no, I didn’t intentionally make a Transformers reference.”  Their food arrived and the two ladies talked about everything and anything, quickly overcoming the barrier of awkwardness and becoming fast friends.  It had been a long time since Shannon had a girl that she considered a friend.  Molly was a genuine soul and wore her heart on her sleeve.  She cared deeply for Sherlock; _It’s absolutely admirable._

“You know,” Molly started, “Sherlock doesn’t ever really mean to be rude – “

_She’s defending him.  It’s adorable._

“ – it’s just something that you have to get used to, you know?  He’s just really smart and it gets in the way sometimes.  He’s just so blatant and honest,” she stated in a mousey voice.  “It hurts sometimes.”

Shannon nodded.  “Well, enough about the great Sherlock Holmes.  I’m here to know you.  So.  Let’s go.  What’s your favorite color?”

 

After doing their bit of press at the art gallery for the Reichenbach case, the Baker Street Boys returned back to the flat.  Sherlock entered Shannon’s room and collected her laptop off of the floor.  _Furniture.  She’ll need some furniture._   They go upstairs into the parlor and begin to try and crack her computer open.  Easier said than done.

 

_Shannon:_

_He’s growling and pacing around.  
There isn’t a hint to your password._

_Dr. Watson:_

_Of course not.  That’d be easy.  
But if you’d like, I can give you a hint._

_Shannon:_

_You would be my hero.  
He’s been ornery since we went to the gallery._

She and Molly walked to her apartment, dropped her off to get some sleep before her next shift, and then Shannon headed to the station to catch the Underground.  She read her last text with a chuckle.  She called the good doctor.

“John, lovely to hear you’ve spent your time well.  What was at the gallery?”

“Oh, nothing much, really.  Just a little press and publicity for him solving the Reichenbach case not long ago.  They gave him a token of appreciation.”

“What is this?!  This keyboard is pristine” she could hear him yelling in the background.  “No smudges, no worn letters or keys.  Everything’s been wiped down!”

“Shannon, please.  I can’t deal with this today.”

“It’s the character from my favorite book from when I was in public school.  You’ll find it in my room.”

“Bless you.”

“I’m on my way back.  I’ll be taking the tube to stay in the population lest I have another altercation,” she chimed.  The car doors opened. “I’m off; I’ll see you both shortly.”

John hung up and went into her room, finding her book in the duffle bag beside her door.  _The Great Gatsby_ by F. Scott Fitzgerald.  He flipped through the pages and found two separate highlighted names: Jay Gatsby  & Nick Carraway.  He’d never really read the book; but he kind of got the gist of it if he ever needed to fake his was through a conversation.

Sherlock had left the laptop on the table, pacing back and forth; agitated.  John sat at the table and clicked away:

_Password: Nick Carraway_  
Access Denied  
  
Password:  Jay Gatsby  
Access Denied

He tried every combination therein that he could think of.  Frustrated, he tossed the book onto the table.  Sherlock heard the soft smack.  “Even with a hint, I didn’t get it!”

“Did you cheat, John?”

“She told me it was a character from her favorite book when she was younger!  There were only two names highlighted in there!”

He looked over to the table with interest and saw the cover. “Gatsby?  Hardly something I would think she could consider her favorite.”

 _Oh, but there’s something you didn’t try, old boy._   John looked to the keys with a new fervor.

_Password: Gatsby  
Welcome_

Her computer booted up quickly, and John found the partition with Sherlock’s instruction that secretly housed her brother’s files.  Opened the folder and looked at the files.  One of them was a README.txt file.  He clicked it.  “Er, Sherlock…”

He waltzed over in a flourish as his red robe billowed behind him.  _It still faintly smells of her._   He looked as the giant file filled the screen, full of numbers, letters, and symbols.  John scooted his chair over to make room for the detective, which Sherlock automatically moved into with a chair.

“Make anything of it?”  John muttered, staring.

Sherlock scrolled.  The file was massive.  His eyes skittered across each line, trying to find something there that would click.  “Try resaving the file as an mp3.”

“What?”

“Trust me.  I have an idea.  Save the file as README . mp3 if you can.  She’s an audiophile – what if her brother saved a sound file as text to throw off any unwanted sniffer dogs?  Try it.  See if it works.  Save it to the desktop.”

“Might work,” John mumbled, typing in the new extension and saving it to its new home.  John clicked on it and watched as the media player booted up.

A clear, resonant voice came through the speakers, “My dearest Shannon – I’m sorry.  I’m so…so sorry.”

John stopped it, “I’m not listening to this.  Not without her.”

Sherlock groaned internally but understood that if he listened without her – hell wouldn’t be able to hide him from her.  _What have you done?  Hmm?  Since when do you care about ‘waiting’ to tear through a new lead?  Whipped, dear boy.  She’s inadvertently got you whipped.  Shame on you.  Need I remind you that she’s only been here three days?  Is that all?  Only three days? Damn it._

 

Shannon was aware that she was being followed.  At the opposite end of the car, she was often receiving glances from a man over his newspaper.  This was her third day in this country.  _Can’t a girl get a break?_   For fun, she had decided to hop off the Metropolitan Line to the Circle Line; just to be sure that she was being followed.  She weaved expertly in and out of people and hopped into her new car.  _No one suspicious.  How droll.  Did you seriously just think that?  Oh my God – are you amalgamating to him?  Girl, you gotta slow the hell down_.  She got off at her stop and walked out toward Baker Street.  It really was a lovely afternoon.  It was warmish, at least the Brits thought it was warm.  She was perfectly find with her jeans and shirt.  She’d felt the hot, humid summers of home before she moved to Boston; and London had nothing on that so far.  She was, for a moment, free.  It was so lovely.  Nothing really to bother her.  She stood outside the flat a while to survey the people that were coming and going.  What were the chances they would follow her here?  Thusly, slim.  They wouldn’t want to come traipsing around here – especially if Sherlock were about.  _Why?  Outside of his intellect and forethought, why wouldn’t you want to come around here?  Mycroft?  But that doesn’t seem to matter – things have happened to Sherlock with or without Myrcroft’s surveillance.  What about being here was deterring them?_

 

_Shannon Byrns:_

_I’m not opening the door for you._

_-SH_

She looked at the message, glared up at the window and flipped him her middle finger as she fished her key out of her back pocket.  Her phone was quickly replaced in her other back pocket and the men could hear her trod up the steps.

Sherlock looked calmly manic – if that were at all possible.  His movements were all over the place but his face was calm.  _That mind is itching to be put to work_.  “Alright, boys, let’s have it then.”

John turned around in his chair and looked sad.  “You might want to sit down – we don’t know what’s on here yet.”

She closed her eyes and gave a slight nod with a heavy sigh. “It was an mp3 file?”

“Just play it!” Sherlock snapped as he sat down in his chair.

She glared at him, “Why didn’t you play it in my absence then?”

“I wouldn’t let him,” John piped up.

“You’re lying, John.  It doesn’t look good on you,” she lightly reprimanded.  John went to retort, but thought against it.  She sat on the couch cross-legged and held her head up on her threaded hands.  She closed her eyes and sighed, “Ready.”

There was a double-click, a moment of silence, and then a slow intake of breath.   
 _“My dearest Shannon – I’m sorry.  I’m so…so sorry.  If you’ve found this, that can only mean one of a few possible outcomes have occurred and I am more than likely dead.  I want you to know that I never wanted you to be involved in all of this.  I’m sure you have a few questions – though at this point, not as many as I would assume that you have.  I’m going to tell you everything I can in the hopes that one day, you can forgive me and be able to bring down these bastards._

_“We were always close as kids – even though you are five years younger; and I want you to know that you have always been so smart.  But after high school; you being about thirteen, I think, I went and enlisted in the Marines.  That’s about the extent of whole truths that you know about my life.  I was actually recruited by our government because I had a unique insight to war games.  I scored higher than any participant in ten years.  I breezed through basic training and was immediately scooped up by Intelligence._

_“I breezed through rank, and when I would come home I had been commanded to wear less of my bars because we didn’t want anyone to know about the quick advancement.  You, however, noticed and brought it to my attention.  I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to hide things from you as readily as mom and dad.  I sat down and talked everything over with you, without breaching security.  But you were thirteen and I was worried that regardless of how mature you were, something might accidentally slip at school.  So I offered to try hypnosis on you…you were almost fifteen then.  You were so curious about it and were so eager to be a test subject._

_“So that’s what happened.  After mom and dad went to sleep, we snuck into the basement to take a crack at hypnosis.  It was what the government had me working on at the time.  It worked.  You forgot exactly when I enlisted into the service and just assumed my old rank was truth.  You were a certain strand of proof that a project like this could work.”_

John shifted around uncomfortably in his chair at the prospect that Shannon was a test subject.

 

_“The idea came to me when I was still in school and I was able to expound on it when I had the right resources.  The first stage of the project was called Phantom.  It was the implantation of programming and an idea.  The theory was this: if you could take an idea and make it believable; give it the proper information and skill set, would that be enough to inspire an individual when the occasion arose?_

_“I was so eager to impress my bosses and prove that this could work.  We looked for candidates, most of whom were soldiers.  But they weren’t performing as best as we thought that they should.  I figured that they were too old.  But you, you were perfect.  And you were always so eager to try everything that life had to offer you.  I explained things to you, more or less, and you agreed.  But I should never have done this to you._

_“We started monthly, working on implanting wants and impulses into the back of your mind that could be activated at a moment’s notice with a key.  The government wanted to use key words for activation – but I realized that words can be used readily outside of our control.  But you – you have synaesthesia…what if music became your keys?  Colors AND sounds.  Ingenious.  I had it set up that you would want to avoid certain songs and I changed them up as you grew older.  Regardless what anyone ever said to you, you were never an abomination.  I heard how they tormented you because of how you saw the world – you’re more than that.  You’re my sister._

_“One of the side-effects though; was that you became less and less aware of how bright you really are. I’m not going to go into the specifics of why – I’m sure you’ll figure it all out.  Then, you felt you were so dumb in high school.  It pained me to watch you think less and less of yourself as I locked away more of your intellect.  I never considered that you would want to go into music.  But it made sense.  I knew that there was no way for me to keep you from those keys.  Your musical appetite was voracious._

_“When you were a junior in college, I was more or less a civilian. I was called only to monitor the progress of our candidates.  They weren’t the same.  I got drunk one night at Jaime’s stag party and I began to tell him about what Phantom was.  Someone must have overheard.  The bar was crowded.  The next day, I was approached by a man named Eddie who threatened to have you killed if I didn’t comply and give them the government’s code words.  Whomever Eddie worked for wanted to enact phase two of Phantom, aptly called Geist.  That was the activation of said operatives that would be placed all over the world.  It couldn’t happen._

Shannon’s eyes darted to and fro behind closed lids, processing all of this information and doing her best to keep control of her emotions.  She loved her brother’s voice.  It was gentle and commanding, much like her own; and yet, it was so loving.  She was always able to know when something bothered him.  The inflections in his voice were so subtle to anyone who didn’t know him, but she read him like a map.

 

_“I did my best to make sure that they got false leads because the words were constantly changing.  Somehow, they realized that I had been feeding you information after the threat.  I only did so because I wanted to protect you.  I started unwrapping all of the work I had done while simultaneously trying to free any oppressed memories.  Your mind began catching up with itself rapidly.  I could only try and do damage control._

_“Shannon, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for what’s happened.  I more or less installed a failsafe into your head in the event that I would die.  Outside forces would instantly be put into action to ensure that you are kept safe as best as possible.  I made friends outside of the country.  If they don’t continue to get emails from me, the right people will be notified and you will be placed in the safest place in the world:  London.”_

 

Her eyes shot open and she stared down at the carpet.  She didn’t want to meet their gaze just yet.  How could Matt have known that she would be brought here?  She felt disappointment in herself and pain expanding within her.

 

_“I know what you’re thinking – how could I have possibly have had the forethought to do all of this?  Because you’re all I’ve got.  You’re all that matters.  There is a man in the British government that has a plan to ensure your safety; and I know it will be tested and perfected because his brother is a genius.  That’s right – you should be with the Holmes brothers by now.  The elder of the two owed me a favor because he and I shared a similar vision about security of siblings and the safety of nations.  Sherlock Holmes will do you well to help you with this predicament.”_

 

She closed her eyes again; trying to fight back let her emotions get the best of her.  She tilted her head down in embarrassment, feeling color slip into her face.  Sherlock looked to John.  John’s face was morose, and he seemed crestfallen.  He stood up and walked over to the kitchen doorway and leaned on the door frame.  Sherlock then watched Shannon for a moment before feeling a pang of guilt.  This, though paramount, was a personal ordeal for her.  He knew he would have to contact his brother immediately.

 

_  
“You, Shannon, are the perfect example of what Phantom is capable of.  Now I leave it up to you.  If you so choose to activate and go Geist upon yourself, it’s going to take time.  There are over one hundred hours of programming broken up between the other twenty-five files on my hard drive.  They can be transferred as .WAV files and listen to them in quiet.  I don’t know exactly how the progressions will fair.  There may be pain and unexpected release of emotions.  I do know that once you’ve started listening, your true beauty; your mind, will begin to rediscover itself and your memories will become clearer._

_“At this point; if I am dead, I don’t know how much of your mind has been unlocked.  The information therein will give you enough ammunition to take down an empire.  You, my darling, are one of the greatest weapons of good that has ever been and it’s all because I was selfish and hid away information in your mind.”_

 

There was a hitch in his voice.  She looked up with a single tear slowly falling down her face at the computer.  Matt was crying and it pained her greatly.  Sherlock glanced over to see her in this moment of anguish.  He didn’t like it: she was vulnerable.

 

_“I am so sorry, Shannon.  I’m so sorry for Mephistopheles’ return.  I went and shuffled it all up.  I don’t know how to express my regret or how much I still love you.  But I leave this decision up to you.  I’ve already made such a mess of things.  I love you.”_

The audio stopped and she finally blinked.  Another tear fell.  No one moved.  They were all processing the vast information that Matt’s testimony had just brought forth.  John made a quick motion to sit beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.  She leaned over into him and started to cry silently.  Sherlock was somber for a moment.  His face was soft and his eyes averted.  In his own way, he was internalizing her pain.  It made sense to him now, why she had taken such subtle revenge on Donovan; she understood what it meant to be misunderstood and to be tormented.

John whispered words of warmth and kindness into her hair, rubbing her shoulder and trying to pass some strength to her.  He looked over to the detective to find his features now set on edge.  He stood abruptly and left Baker Street without saying so much as a word.  Shannon continued to cry into John’s jumper until she fell asleep.


	18. Wine & Dine

He had tried to get up on more than one occasion, but he felt too chivalrous to wake her up.  She’d been having the worst time since getting to London.  He could only imagine what was going on in her head considering the amount of stress that had been put there the past two days alone.  She lay there, asleep against his shoulder, face still red from crying.  Sherlock had been gone for a while now, and John felt a nag in his mind telling him to find out where he was.  He reached into his pocket slowly, but she stirred and turned.  Taking his chance, he got up, fished out his mobile and texted Sherlock.

 

_Sherlock:_

_Where are you?  
You just left us here._

 

There wasn’t an instantaneous reply.  John went over to her laptop and closed it.  He decided to make a quick blog post, omitting what he and Sherlock were doing concerning Shannon’s case.  If this was as sensitive a subject as he thought, there was no need to go on and advertising it to the world. 

Shannon woke up a little while later, apologetic.   “Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to fall asleep…”

“Shannon, considering how your holiday’s gone so far, I think you’ve earned a little bit of sleep.  Just know that I’m here if you ever need anything.  Now – Sherlock’s gone off somewhere; but what I can do is take you out, if you’d like.  Come on, we need to eat and he surely isn’t going to want to.”

She nodded and yawned, “I am kind of hungry.  I probably look like death.  Give me a few minutes to not look like the walking dead.”  She got up and stretched before going downstairs to fetch her makeup bag.  There wasn’t a whole lot in it because she didn’t wear much.  With all the crying and the aching she’d been doing lately, hiding a little bit of herself behind some makeup seemed like a good idea.  She sat on her mattress and applied some smoky shadows to her lid to help hide those appalling circles under her eyes.  _Dash of bronzer here, little bit of liner there – good enough.  Yeah, definitely not looking like death anymore._   She straightened out her shirt collar and sprayed her perfume into the air before walking through the mist.  _And now, you don’t smell like blah either._   She waited at the bottom of the stairs for John, who had his coat in hand.

“Aren’t you going to be cold?”

“Me?  Nah.  I’ll be fine.  I’m warm enough nearly all the time.”

They left and started walking, “I meant, isn’t it cooler here than it is back home?”

“Definitely,” she replied, “This feels like air conditioning to me.  It’s kind of nice.”

“Ah.”  He was having problems reading her face and voice, “You alright?”

“Of course,” she stated, “I’m a little sore; but that’s to be expected.”

“Shannon,” he chided.

“I’ll be fine, John, thank you,” she said.

He was so sure she was distancing herself just like Sherlock did.  The plainness in her face was uncanny.  “If you say so.  What are you hungry for?”

“A pint,” she laughed, “I could really use a pint.  Food is of no consequence.”  She looked up to the sky as they walked.  It had its first hues of pink from the sun going down.

“Right then, I know where we’re going to eat.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock had sat silent the entire taxi ride to Mycroft’s home.  He was fuming internally.  _God help Mycroft.  How could he have condoned such a thing, always claiming to have moral high ground? And to her of all people?  She was so much like him and yet – so unique._ There was only one person that could have purposely ‘left’ that newspaper he read the article in at Baker Street.  Mycroft had visited albeit briefly at one point not long ago.

On entering, he burst through the door of his study, interrupting whomever Mycroft had been talking to.  “I certainly would love to applaud you for your use of resources this time, Mycroft – but that would imply that you and I have more than a civil relationship.”  He noticed the other man sitting down, “You, who are you?”  He went to answer, “Oh shut up, it doesn’t matter does it?  Though I do suggest you stop having relations with your secretary considering that heart condition you have.  Things might go south.”

“If you will excuse us, just a few moments,” Mycroft commented with the perfect skill of practiced humility.  He grabbed Sherlock by his elbow and swiftly guided him out into another room, “Sherlock Holmes, you are certainly trying my patience!”

“Just like I’m sure you’ll be trying Miss Byrn’s patience soon?  I require information and I know that you are the one who has it.  Now, you can deny it all you want but I know it was you who left that paper in my flat and that you were baiting me with it.”

Mycroft’s gaze was placid and icy.  “This matters how?”

Sherlock’s face hardened, “Matthew Byrns.”  He saw the recognition in his brother’s eyes.  “I got the simple version of what Phantom and Geist are.  I want to know what you had to do with it and why you agreed to protect his sister when that’s obviously not working out too well.”

He heaved a small sigh out of annoyance, “This is at the highest of security – “

“I don’t care.  Working a case, Mycroft; you can tell me or I’ll just break into another base or maybe hack into your computer.  Please,” he groaned, “For once, just make this simple.”

Mycroft’s face contorted in exasperation, “Matthew Byrns was a decorated United States Marine that was sharp and had an eye for creative warfare.  He had hypothesized that an entity, in this case a government, could be toppled regardless of size if carefully trained and imaginative ghost agents could be placed ideally in high target zones.  His insight to the mind and understanding psychology and conditioning were unparalleled to anyone alive right now.  When he was given the go-ahead by his superiors to conduct a test trial on volunteer soldiers, one of his commanding officers got in contact with my office asking if we would _unofficially_ be willing to financially back such a program.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared in agitation, “For the better of the commonwealth; how noble of you.”

“I never spoke to him in person, but we exchanged emails and such describing of a time when wars would be fought secretly and subtly out of view of the public eye.  If his program were successful, it would have made the cold war paranoia about spy cells look like child’s play.  However, he wasn’t getting the desired results in the soldiers that volunteered.  They lacked a certain creative aspect to the way they accepted the programming.  Off the cuff, I had mentioned that perhaps someone with a child’s perspective could be used more effectively.”

“She was fifteen, Mycroft – hardly a child at that point, don’t you agree?”

“Completely.  But she was gifted.  Like you, Sherlock.  She viewed the world in absolutes and reason – what if that could have been suppressed and then have programming and training to create an effective super cell?  It wasn’t condoned, but he decided to try Phantom’s test on his sister.  The rest I’m sure you’ve gathered?”

“So you were his push.”

“Unintentionally, yes, I was.  He called a little over a year ago to inform me that he had been, by all accounts, successful with Phantom; however, her intellect was bashing at the barriers he had put up to protect her.  As long as she went unnoticed, she was safe.”

“Of course, no one would think to look at a ‘dumb’ sister,” he sneered.  “Why didn’t I think of that,” he quipped sarcastically.

Mycroft continued, visibly agitated with his younger sibling, “Mr. Byrns graciously reminded me that I was the reason he had ever contemplated performing Phantom on his sister in the first place and made me vow to do my best and ensure her safety; even if it meant getting her out of her country.  The rest, I’m sure your deductive skills have surmised is history.”

He shook his head, “And there’s nothing wrong with us, is there?”

“I and other members of the government were very interested in this project because of its potential.  Growing up, Sherlock, is about making decisions that you don’t necessarily want to make and living with the consequences of those actions.  You need to come to terms with that and grow up!  Things are not so succinct and neat.”

He huffed in apprehension, “Obviously.  And yet you sleep so soundly at night.”  He turned on his heel and left. _I just want to see her.  I just want ensured that she’s fine.  You’re an idiot.  I didn’t like her clinging to John._

 

* * *

 

 

Shannon and John sat in a quieter corner of the restaurant and were conversing politely about anything other than her case, of which she was grateful for.  She ate and allowed John to do most of the talking.  It was relaxing to hear his take on other cases or his views and philosophies of the world.   John was honest and kind, reliable, dutiful, and beyond loyal.  It was wonderful that there was someone in Sherlock’s life that could be those things for him.

“And you, Shannon, you’re remarkable!  I mean, Sherlock’s amazing…but it’s so interesting to see the same type of smart from a different point of view.”

“Thank you, John,” she smiled politely, “That’s just the way my head works.  I can’t help it.”  Their phones sounded and they looked to their screens.

 

_John, Shannon Byrns:_

_You are not at the flat._

_-SH_

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

_No, I believe John is Wine-ing and Dining me.  
I wanted a beer.  I got wine._

_Sherlock:_

_She woke up so I took her to get something to eat.  
Where have you been?_

_Shannon Byrns:_

_I’m sure that’s going well, considering._

_-SH_

_John:_

_She’s really not your type.  
You’d end it with her first in three weeks._

_-SH_

_Sherlock Holmes:_

_We’re at some restaurant on Blandford.  
I hope my ordering pizza isn’t an insult._

_Shannon Byrns:_

_Il Baretto, most likely.  
I’ll be along shortly._

_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_You’re a dick.  
I hate you sometimes._

Shannon placed her phone to the outside of the table and moved slightly to her right and John looked at her inquisitively, “I’m sure he’ll be along.”

“Ah.  Do you think he’d find us?”

“I’d be able to find the pair of you.  So it only makes sense he’d find the pair of us.”  A hum of adrenaline surged through her.  Not two hours ago, she was an emotional mess.  But now, Sherlock Holmes was on his way to this restaurant to ‘save’ her from Dr. John Watson.  _This, ladies and gentlemen, is a romantic gesture from him…regardless of how much it really isn’t_.  _He’s looking for John.  And you, dumbass._

John pouted mildly, “True.  I’m sure he’ll be his chipper self.”  He sent a quick text.

 

_Sherlock:_

_Try not to talk about the case.  
She’s finally wound down some._

Not long after, Sherlock entered the restaurant and motioned to the host that he saw his party.  He pulled a chair over to the table and sat down, removing his scarf.  As he placed his scarf across his knee he sprawled a little under the table and found her leg and rested his against hers.  She gave a slow blink in acknowledgement to keep John off their backs.

With elbows on the table and fingers threaded together, he leaned over with a mildly devious facial expression, “Is no one going to ask where I’ve been?”  _You refreshed that perfume.  I need to find out what it is.  Intoxicating.  And makeup?_

“I didn’t realize I was a nanny service now,” she goaded.

“I did ask you,” John reminded, “You chose to ignore my text.”

He remained unfazed eyeing the pair of them back and forth.

“Where were you?” John asked, giving in as the pizza came to the table.

“I paid a visit to my brother,” he replied coolly.

“Wow, John, you must feel left out.  You didn’t get special time with Mycroft Holmes today.  Aww.”

John gave a mock-sneer in a juvenile gesture and looked back to Sherlock.  “Okay…so you went and saw your brother…”  He obviously didn’t want Sherlock discussing this right now.

Shannon took a bite and faced the detective, “All cloak and gagger stuff, I expect.”  She chewed and swallowed.  “Probably something about my brother being intelligent, getting noticed, deciding to use me for experiments, got found out, blah, blah, blah – “ she took a sip of her wine.  She grimaced.  _Not a wine drinker.  So not a wine drinker._

“How’d you know that?” the boys asked simultaneously.

“I’m amazing,” she retorted smugly.  Their faces were priceless, “Or…I just watched enough spy movies as a kid…”

John displayed triumph and his friend, annoyance.  “Brilliant.”

“Stop flattering, John; I’ve heard every variation therein.”

“Be nice,” she rebuked softly.  “You two will behave while I’m here, Jesus.”  She eyed Sherlock, “You’re going to eat, right?  I’m not taking any of this back to the flat.”

“Why not?” John asked, “Pizza is great.”

“I put my pizza in the oven to heat it up, it gets soggy in the microwave.  And the oven’s occupied.”

“With what?”

“My notes.”

“Wait, honestly?”

“I needed another place to put my notes from the last case so that they were readily accessible.  It was the next logical place to put it,” he stated.  “I’ll eat if you drink your wine.”  He looked over to Shannon.

She pouted, “I’ve never cared for wine, that doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t care to eat when I’m in the middle of a case because it takes too much time and yet you’ve been forcing me to change routine.  Drink your wine; or, I won’t eat,” he smirked challengingly.

“Sherlock, that’s childish,” John griped.  “You really don’t like wine?  Then why’d you say you did?”

“I said a ‘pint’.  But that’s no never mind now,” she picked up her glass and swished the wine around, raising the glass to her mouth.


	19. Just an Interlude

_She really doesn’t like losing.  She just drank it all…one shot, just because she wants me to eat?  Interesting_.  He picked up a piece of pizza and ate it quietly as she and John continued to converse.  She jostled her leg to catch his attention and shot him a scowl.  At the end of the meal, Sherlock opted to pay and the three of them walked back to their home.  He stayed closer to her than normal, often brushing shoulders with her as he walked between her and John.  He felt a sense of responsibility now because of the knowledge of Mycroft’s involvement.  All the more unnerving, was that Mycroft more or less urged someone to do this to someone like him.  It wasn’t merely coincidence.

John had another early day tomorrow and made Sherlock promise not to go back out again that night.  “She needs a night, Sherlock.  I highly advise it as her doctor.”  He left to go to his room.

“Fine,” he grumbled.  Shannon went and curled up in John’s chair with her laptop, closing out of her brother’s files to find something mindless to do on the internet.  He looked up a while later and saw her fidgeting as she was playing a game.  Her full concentration was in this game and he had thought about her enough during the day; logically, this should be a good time to have that discussion.

“Sherlock Holmes, if you keep looking at me like that, we’re going to have a problem,” she jeered serenely.  He looked over at her with a small smile.  “Are you smiling now?  Oh dear, this is progressing far faster than I feared.”

“Why are you so unique?”

She looked up over her screen, “Do you want the answer mom and dad told me or for me to make something up?  I’m pretty sure given the information from today, you know why I’m unique.  Or, are those darned chemicals flooding your body again?”

He sat there stoically in the dim light.  “Yes.”  He tapped his foot idly in time to whatever song was in his head.

“Thought so.  How sweet of you to come and rescue me from the dastardly John Watson,” she chuckled as she went back to her game.

“You refreshed your perfume before you left for dinner and you put on makeup.  It’s not necessarily something you’d wear all the time because you don’t wear much, do you?”

“You don’t need to impress me, Sherlock.  You’ve done more than that already.  I put the makeup on to hide myself, as you must have gathered.  I looked a little bedraggled.”

“And the perfume?”

“You liked it, I observed.  I put a tad more on because it gives a false sense of power; if I have power then I can hide my emotions as well.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Yes,” she replied closing the lid of her computer.  “I noticed when I was fixing your bow hand.  I mean, really, Sherlock.  I’m not as good as you, but don’t insult me.”

“I think we should have that discussion now.  Let’s consider the hallway first, shall we?”

“Please, I’m all ears.”

“Obviously there’s some sort of interpersonal attraction between the two of us,” he began objectively.

She sat cross-legged again with her hands on the arms of the chair, “Clearly.”

“Your voice is a little low for my liking, but I do find you visually appealing and the culmination of your wash and perfume with your natural smell often puts my head into a haze,” he stated.

“Thank you, Spock; you’re not so bad yourself.”

“But all of those naturally obvious factors in the laws of attraction don’t make up for everything else about your being that I find astounding.”  He stood up and began to pace about.  “I find that I am reprimanding myself when I compliment you or want to do something out of character because logically; I don’t care.  But then there’s you and suddenly – “ he whispered exasperatedly.

“ – things no longer make sense and logic keeps banging at your mind to come back but you don’t find yourself wanting to listen, right?  Did you just pay me a compliment?” she asked, crossing her arms.

He stopped beside her and looked down, “I’m not sure that I like it.  There’s a constant pit of uncertainty.”

“That’s fine,” she replied looking up at him.  “That’s completely normal, Sherlock.”

“So I’ve been told; I’ve just not experienced it before.  Well, not exactly like this,” he motioned with his hands.  “This is different.  I don’t do different.”

“Coming from the man who’s different from everyone else and all too unkindly reminds them of that?” she whispered with a raised eyebrow.  “You like different, otherwise you wouldn’t take such a keen interest in what you do to occupy your spare time.  To an extent: you have a set routine and I do apologize that I’ve thrown it off.”

His averted his eyes and looked to his skull above the fireplace.  _There it is again, that damn admiration that she keeps making you feel.  This is preposterous._   “That’s of no consequence,” he murmured.  “And this morning, what have you to say about that?”

“I will not apologize for it, if that’s what you’re implying.  I recall you shoving me, sir,” she said staring at his towering figure.  “I simply changed the playing level.  If you think that you can deflect your own actions from this morning – “

He cut her off by leaning down and kissing her firmly.  He felt a sense of satisfaction from it; as if it were the thrill from solving a puzzle.  “I don’t think for a moment that I’d be able to deflect from you.”

“That was a surprise,” she whispered.  “Sherlock Holmes, are you sweet on me?”

“No,” he replied standing tall again.

“That was a decent lie.  Neither am I.”  She stood up and walked to the kitchen for a glass of water.  He followed her.

“I have a hypothesis that I’m willing to test, if you’re interested,” he chimed in close behind her.  “But first, I’d like to have another look at your bite: I think two observations a day, twelve hours apart should suffice.”

She sat down at the table, rolled her pant leg and carefully peeled the medical tape up to reveal her wound.  It looked better than it had this morning.  She situated herself in the chair as such she wouldn’t cramp up and lifted her leg up on the table.  He took a few more photographs, poked and prodded gently, and then took some notes.

She winced occasionally, “So, this hypothesis of yours, care to share?”

“Quiet.”  She crossed her arms in annoyance and waited for him to finish his notes.  “Say that you have two high-functioning intellectuals that are attracted to one another,” he began as he dropped her leg to drape over his knee.  “Strictly on a chemical basis…”

“I see,” she lead.  “I’m listening.”

“What extremes would have to occur in order for them to enact on those impulses?  They could be documented and used to test the lengths at which the human animal would go –“ he stated.  He stopped mid-sentence as she stood up and hovered over him.

“Extremes?  I don’t think those are necessary in such an experiment,” she answered honestly.  She swung a leg over him and sat down straddled in his lap.  “Besides, your experiment has already failed, considering your hypothesis needs revision.”

He looked over her, stunned at his current situation, “How is the hypothesis wrong?  Testing hasn’t even begun, technically.”

“You stated that this trial would be based solely on a chemical basis.  If that’s to remain true, I would then have to excuse myself from the trials because you’d stated earlier that you find me unique because of _other factors_ that aren’t necessarily chemical or physical,” she retorted smugly.

He frowned, “If you were expecting to catch me off guard with this display, it didn’t work.”  He was amazed to find that his hands had moved to her waist.  _I don’t recall moving you or telling you to move._

“Oh no,” she replied, “I’m just testing the _extremes._   We’ll see, Sherlock.  I suppose I can humor you in this matter.”

She went to stand up to find him holding her in place, “I’m observing.”

“Don’t observe; see.  Look,” she reprimanded sitting back down.  “Try to let your eyes see as a normal person does.”

He titled her chin this way and that, taking in the new perspective that he had on her.  _That perfume…_ He inhaled deeply.

She watched him like a kid in a candy store.  It was so interesting to see someone else so fascinated with her.  She’d had flings, sure – but they were always a means to an end.  To her recollection, no one had ever really taken the time to _see_ her.  People looked, sure; but this was something altogether different.  “Addict.”

“What?” he said sharply.

“The perfume, Sherlock, is called Addict.  Quite happenstance, I might add; I’ve worn it for years.”

“Ah, yes, a Dior item.  I had to do a case once where the smell of a woman’s perfume on her kidnapper was the tipping point in a case.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, “Am I free to go?”

“Not quite.”  He pulled her closer to his body and wrapped his arms firmly around her, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“No more uncomfortable than you make John,” she laughed.

His face grew stern, “John isn’t gay.  Though, his repeated mention of the subject does amuse me.”

She rolled her eyes in exaggeration, “I’m aware, thank you.”  She kissed his jaw lightly and felt his fingers dig into her sides.  “What a shock,” she mocked, “A reaction.”

“I’m sure if you continue, your findings will include a number of elicited responses from the subject,” he offered plainly.

“I’m certain of that,” she replied after kissing his forehead, “But I will be saving those for another time.  You’ve had enough for today.”  She threaded her hands in his hair, stood up, grabbed her glass and made her way downstairs.  “Besides, this is about the time you go to bed normally anyway.”

He looked to the clock, it read 22:07.  She was good.  Regardless of anything else, she was able to observe things about him and his mannerisms that very few else could gather in just as little time.  He retired to his room and got under his covers.  His mind flipped back and forth between Shannon and the facets of her case.  The more that he found out about her, the more intrigued he became.

He awoke around the same time John did and the pair of them went about their normal routine as if Shannon wasn’t there.  John had cooked breakfast while Sherlock was in the shower and in turn, Sherlock made coffee and when John was getting dressed.  John went to the front door to collect the paper and brought it up with him.  They sat together in comfortable silence, eating and reading.

“You weren’t up long,” John commented taking a sip of his tea.

Sherlock kept reading, “No, I wasn’t.”

“Shannon was up here with you?”

“For a time,” he replied emotionlessly, “She got bored with me and went downstairs to get some rest.  Doctor’s orders, remember?”

John looked at him skeptically.  “You may be right about her not being my type,” he conceded, “But that doesn’t mean she’s not someone else’s type.”

He continued to ignore John, “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, John.  But if it’s the fact that you are trying to play matchmaker, you can stop.”

John smiled knowingly, “You like her.”

“I like you.”

“Not the same.”

“Really?”

“I hope not,” he chuckled before taking a bite of his toast.  “It’s okay, Sherlock.”

“I know it would be okay, I don’t understand why you are trying to thrust her upon me,” he commented, frustrated.

“Because, I know you.  I know that after _her,_ you kind of shut off a portion of you.  You don’t talk about her anymore and I know you admired her, in a sense.”

Sherlock dropped his paper to his lap and glared blankly at his friend.

“But with Shannon, I see those flashes of admiration when she corrects me or says something that goes over everyone else’s head but yours – she’s keeping you on your toes, Sherlock.  You like it, though you may never admit it.  It’s quite endearing.  You care.”

“Shannon, how nice of you to join us.  Please, have a seat.  There’s breakfast in the kitchen,” Sherlock retorted without looking at her.

John spun around in his chair and saw her leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed.  “How long have you been standing there, exactly?”  She was wearing shorts and a tank top again.

She shrugged and padded barefoot into the kitchen, “I believe when my being someone else’s type was uttered.”  Sherlock laughed quietly.  She returned and sat beside John as he went to apologize, “Please, John, don’t worry.  I’m not offended and I’m not going to go storming out of here in a tantrum because I don’t agree with what people say.”  She blew onto her coffee and gave it a quick stir.  “I will however, be going out later today so that you two can have quality time.”

John scoffed, “I’m working today.”

“I understand that,” she replied warmly, “But the two of you are in balance.  It’s going to stay that way.  Besides, I have some things to do.  A friend of mine from college that was a sparring buddy should be at a gym today.  At least he said he would be yesterday.  I’m going to go and get my workout for the day.  I might as well call in my coffee date with Lestrade if I’m going to try and see Eddie again.”

Sherlock looked over at her, went to make a comment but begrudgingly bit into his toast when she glowered at him.  “Where will you be, might I ask?”

“Over towards Chiswick, I’ll text you both if there’s a problem.  And thank you, boys, for breakfast,” she mumbled with her mouth full.  She downed her coffee quickly and got up from the table.  She was already rolling her shoulders and neck out, prepping for later.

And as quickly as she appeared, she had retreated down to her room to get ready.  She decided to opt out of changing her shorts considering she didn’t sleep in them, and slipped on her other zip-up on.  Her hair was brushed out quickly and put up into a ponytail and she went up to the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth.  She grabbed her keys off of the small table on the landing and trotted out the door.

“Are – are we being domestic?” John asked confused.

“Us, I think not.”

“No, I mean the three of us – that was almost…endearing,” he puzzled.

Sherlock picked up his paper and resumed reading, “She has a way of doing things like that, I’ve gathered.”

“Right, I’m off to work.  Don’t stay in all day,” he said with care.  “Go out and do something, and don’t follow either of us around either.”


	20. For We are Monsters

After about an hour of hopping between the tube stations, busses, and walking, Shannon made it to Chiswick to meet up with her friend, Dave.  They had gigged together in college: he was a percussionist and she a trumpet player; they had become fast friends and were often paired together in jazz groups because of their dynamic.  He was playing as often as he could, but finding a good gig post-university was easier said than done.  He had been living in London for a few months because he had got an assistantship with some professor and was more or less interning.

She saw him walking a few yards ahead of her and gave a shout.  He turned around and ran to give her a hug, equally crushing one another.  “Dave, I have missed you!”  She gave him a light peck on the cheek, “The next time you say I’ll see you in a few months, you better damn well keep your word!”

“I’m sorry,” he mused, “But I distinctly remember you telling me that you were going to call me about a gig!”  He held on to her a bit longer, “Shannon, I’m so sorry I couldn’t fly home for the funeral.”

She gave a gentle squeeze, “I know.  The card you sent means a lot; I carry it with me when I go places.  I even brought it with me here.”  They parted and she looked at him, “Look at you!  You look great.”

“Thanks.  The internship’s got me gigging some, which is awesome.  But it’s not as much as we used to.  How about you?  You play still?”

“Ish,” she grimaced, “I kind of lost it when Matt died.  I haven’t wanted to play.”

“Oh, well that’s going to change.  We’re playing today.  And don’t tell me that you have anything to do today because that’s a lie.  You have to pay attention to meeeeeeee,” he whined, petting her head like a cat.

“Dave, I swear to God, I’m going to beat your ass.”

“Great!” he chirped loudly, “I haven’t had a good ass whooping since the _last_ time that we sparred.  Hope you know that I’ve been practicing.  Not to brag,” he boasted dusting off his shoulders, “But I’m pretty much the shit.”

He wrapped his arm around her back to lead her into the gym, “I’m sure you are and you’ll be saying the same thing in five minutes.”

“Five minutes?  You can’t be serious.”

She laughed as they entered the mat room and she set her bag down.  He threw her some tape and a chalk bag.  “Five minutes.  Fifty bucks.  Five minutes and I’ll have you knocked down.  It’s going to take you over an hour to try and break free.  Then you’ll tire out; therefore you’ll lose.”  She took off her zip up and rubbed chalk up and down her arms and neck, her hands, legs, and feet after she removed her socks and shoes.  She hopped around the mat, bouncing up and down whilst flinging her arms back and forth.

Dave smiled at her and followed a similar routine with the chalk.  She tossed his the tape before he dusted the rest of his hands.  “Aren’t you using any?”

“Nope, won’t need it,” she quipped enthusiastically as she started to rotate her arms around.  She alternated her hops to a few on each leg.  “I am so ready.”

Dave taped up the palms of his hands and threaded the textured tape between his fingers, “Suit yourself; that fifty’s looking mighty fine.”

“BUT FIRST!” she yelled running to her bag.  “Tunes.”  She tossed him her mp3 player and he hooked it up to the speakers.  “Whatever you want, there’s lots of good stuff on there.  Take a look.”

He scrolled around a bit and found her workout playlist.  Everything there was pulsed to certain degrees of intensity and it would do well for today’s excursion.  Some high octane remix came booming overhead and Shannon sighed.

“Yessssssssss,” she growled with a smile.  “Ready to get your ass handed to you?”

Dave walked onto the mat and wiped his feet to get some traction.  “Ready to earn me some money.”

“Done.”  He charged at her and grabbed her shoulders to try and throw her.  Shannon sidestepped and swiped his leg up, giving her the opportunity to drop him to the mat.  She felt her feet start to lose traction and thought it wise to take a quick dive at his legs.  The offset of balance got him to topple down and instantly, she wrapped her legs around his chest from behind and dragged him across the mat on her forearms.

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he yelled.  Try as he might, he couldn’t get his feet under him fast enough to stand up and throw her off.  She kept throwing him around and slamming him into the mat.

“I can do this all day,” she huffed with an evil smile.

 

Almost two hours later and exhausted, Dave tapped the mat in defeat.  His chest ached and she showed no signs of giving up any time soon.  She released her grip and rolled onto her back groaning.  They both looked at each other and start laughing.  “I deserve half of that money,” he breathed heavily.

“Bullshit!” she mumbled in between breaths.  “I had you down in less than five minutes!”

“But you said I’d give up in an hour.  I didn’t.  Tough shit!”

“Oh come on!” she smirked as she slowly stood up.  She looked down at her calf.  In retrospect, this was probably a bad idea.  The bite was throbbing and it stung.

“I’ll call it even if you come play with me.  Right now.  I’ve got a room booked for rehearsal in a few hours; you and I need to jam,” he replied smartly as he walked over to grab a towel and tossed her one.

She started wiping off sweat and chalk, “Dave…”

“It’s not up for discussion.  Come on.  It’ll be good for you.  Let’s go – or I’m keeping your phone!” he taunted, picking it up off her hoodie.  He turned it on and gave a devilish grin, “You have a message.  Oooooh.”

“Dave,” she warned, “Give it here.  You can’t get into it.”

“Like hell,” he punched in a few numbers, “You’ve been my best friend for years.  I think I can guess your password.”  He opened up her message and looked up at her in astonishment.  “Sherlock Holmes.  Are you serious?!  You know Sherlock Holmes?  What the hell, Shannon?”

“Give me my phone, jackass,” she spurred jumping on his back.  She reached and grabbed her device out of his hands and hopped off.

 

_Shannon Byrns:_

_We’re out of milk.  
John knocked it over._

_-SH_

“Figures,” she mumbled.  Dave was staring at her in astonishment.  “What?” she asked flatly.

“One: you know Sherlock Holmes.  Two: You know Sherlock Holmes.  Three: He’s giving you a grocery list.  Care to explain?”

“Uh – I live there right now?” she chimed with a small wince.  “I mean, I just got here!  I’m more of a temporary boarder.  It’s a long story and I don’t feel like telling it – “

“Is he as much of a jack ass as it’s implied in the papers?”

“Dave, knock it off.  He’s bizarre and his antics are uncharacteristic, but he’s not _that_ much on an ass.  All the time.”

“Where’s your trumpet?  You should have brought it with you,” Dave frowned.  “Or didn’t I text you that?”

“You didn’t text me that, it’s back at where I’m staying.  We can go get it.”

Dave gleamed, “Or have him bring it and meet us there.”

“No.”

“Chicken?”

“No.  He’s not a taxi service.  He has things to do, Dave.”

“Double or nothing on that fifty dollars.  If he brings it, I get my jam session.  If he doesn’t, you get 100 bucks.  But I get to send the text.”

She sneered at him and whined, “Why are you always so needy?  Is this why I didn’t call you?  Ugh.”

She tossed him her phone and packed up her things.  Dave tossed it back to her after he was done.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

_Small favor. Could you bring my trumpet to UWL._   
_I lost a bet._

_-Shannon_

_Shannon Byrns:_

_I find it thrilling he got into your phone._   
_That means your password is simple enough._   
_I will be there shortly._

_-SH_

“Dave, you’re a fuck.”

He grinned packing his things, “I try.  I guess I got myself a jam session?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you.  No promises on my playing though.”

He frowned as they walked out, waving to the desk man.  “I have no doubt that it’s not still in your fingers, kid.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she replied, lightly rubbing her lips, “These babies are out of commission.  It’s been rough.”

They walked to the various stations and made their way to the university.  As far as she was concerned, all music schools had the same basic, primordial smell.  It was the amalgamation of blood, sweat, oil, grease, wood, and rosin.  Older schools had a more structured smell to them; but deep down – they were all united.

Shannon followed Dave into one of the halls he had on reserve and watched as he got out the pieces to a small jazz drum kit.  As he was setting up, she sat at the piano and began playing through chords and grotesquely improvising, fumbling often.  “You know,” she chimed in, resetting her hands on the keys, “I play piano just about every day – and I’m still fucking awful at it.”

“Hey!” he barked, sitting on the throne testing the bass drum pedal, “You’re not fucking awful…you’re a step above that now, you’re absolutely awful.”

She pouted, “I’m thinking I remember why I ignored your sorry ass.”

He stuck his tongue out at her and began playing fills and such.  Over the next ten or so minutes, other members from his group showed up to provide a decent sized combo.  She gave up her seat to a genuine piano player, of whom she was grateful that she hadn’t heard Shannon botch about so badly on the keys.

“Alright, everyone,” Dave stood up with a mild boom to his voice, “This is my best friend from undergrad, Shannon Byrns.  She’s visiting right now and I conned her into playing with us today.  Now, you lot have to make me look good, because she knows her way around a set of changes.”

One of the students piped up, “What do you play?”

“Trumpet,” she admitted.  “Yeah, yeah, I know – I’m supposed to be the stereotypical asshole of the group, right?”

“I will refrain from replying,” came a dark voice from the other end of the hall.

She smiled and turned around slowly with her hands on her waist.  “I was about to think you got lost.”  Dave got giddy a moment and Shannon shot him a severe look.  She hopped off the stage and walked up the aisle way.  “Thank you, Sherlock.  Because of you, I’m now out a hundred dollars.  Think next time.”

He raised his eyebrows and gave a gentle frown, “Well, I’m not the one that let her best friend from school get into her phone.  It’s his birthday, by the way.  I sussed that one out.”

“Great on you,” she cooed, taking the strap off his shoulder, “I’ll change it before I get back.”  She turned and jumped onto the stage.  She unzipped her gig bag and withdrew her silver instrument.  The band was already warming up.  She listened acutely and made some minor tuning adjustments, put her mouthpiece in and started to blow a few notes.

“Awesome,” Dave resounded triumphantly, “Shannon, this is the undergrad improv group.  Let’s see what you can pull out of them.  Now guys,” he lead, “She’s going to probably play with and on top of you.  Talk to each other, you know?  Speak – have a conversation.  See what you talk about.”

Shannon chuckled softly.  “How about we hop around A-flat guys?  And my lady at the keyboard, you play those blue notes all you want.”  Sherlock watched as her fingers seemingly melded with the valves of her trumpet.  He moved to the furthest corner and sat in one of the shadows.  Not one to do this often, he was intrigued to hear what she sounded like.  He'd always been so enthralled with music and musicians, especially those that were knowledgeable and good at their craft.

“Now,” she added with a smile, “I’m going to have a conversation with each of you.  I may jump between you, or talk to you simultaneously – you have to listen.  And no one’s safe.”

Dave began playing a simple riff and got the rhythm section to follow suit.  Shannon puffed her cheeks and stretched her lips wide; almost in a grimace of what seemed to be pain.  Sherlock was sure that this was normal for her, but it was amusing.  She placed the instrument to her lips and this warm, dark, whispery sound came flowing out of the bell.  She was doing her best to sound like a soft jazz artist he had heard once before and her fingers moved in patterns.  She would look to each student to take their turn to lead where she would then listen and play back a musical question or answer.

Sherlock sat there enthralled – she wasn’t necessarily the best trumpeter he had ever heard, but there was something behind her sound that completely captured him.  After ten minutes or so, Shannon was in need of a small break and cut off the band to have them quickly discuss their performance.  She talked to each student and gave them a critique and praise for what they had done.  She was in teacher mode and he found it endearing:  The way she held her trumpet under her arm as she motioned with her free arm, the way she expressed musical sounds with hand gestures; her passion of her craft seeping from every pore of her being.  She was knowledgeable and her depth of understanding was unparalleled to those on the stage with her.

Dave broke up the small break, “You guys want to hear something cool?”  The loud ‘yeah’s spread across the group.  “Shannon and I played this piece at a recital our senior year.  We wrote it.”

“Dave,” she warned with a slow nod, “My face is being a pansy today.”

“Shut up,” he cut her off.  “You can play it.  I know you can.”  He hopped up off the drum kit and jumped to the marimba.  Mallets in hand, he started to play a funky samba kind of rhythm.  He looked up at her and waited as he kept playing.  “They aren’t dismissed until you play.”

She groaned and called him something under her breath.  She heaved a long, deep breath and channeled that air through her horn.  The bright, sharp tones that came blaring out were a stark contrast to the deep timbres of the marimba.  This certainly didn’t sound like the same player from fifteen minutes ago.  It was boppy, spry, and light.  Sherlock listened as she climbed up and down her range.  When she closed her eyes, her fingers automatically took over as the difficult running passage came to fruition.  The two soloed back and forth for a while before calling and answering each other to end the song.

Shannon took a seat and listened to the students start playing another chart.  She would interject harmonies and different subdivisions of beat when she felt compelled; but really, she was having fun with kids and music.  There wasn’t a whole lot better than that.  At the end of the session, the students asked questions and exchanged information with her.  She didn’t know how long she’d be in London, to be honest – and gigging could be a means of making money if she was paid cash.  _I should contact Mycroft.  I’m going to need a working visa._

Dave dismissed his students and the pair of them worked quickly to dismantle to drum set and out it away.  Her hoodie sleeves were rolled up off of her forearms, Sherlock noticed, and gave a soft smile.  _You now find her quirks endearing?  Please.  You’re pathetic.  I'm supposed to observe objectively._   Shannon slung her trumpet bag across her body and walked with Dave up the aisle.

“I know you’re still lurking about back here, Mr. Holmes,” she teased.  Dave had his arm around her shoulders.  She knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed nor would he be pleased.  He could deny it until the day he died; but Shannon was very aware that Sherlock Holmes, (in his own way, of course,) was being possessive.

He groaned, “I was bored.  You and John vehemently remind me not to be destructive when I get as such.  I had nothing else to do this morning.”

“That’s not entirely true,” she said, “In any case – Dave, Sherlock Holmes; Sherlock Holmes, Dave.”

Dave beamed, “You’re a bit of celebrity, Mr. Holmes.  It’s nice to meet you.”

“Quite,” he replied.

Shannon pulled out her phone and found a missed call.  More than likely it was Lestrade since she didn’t recognize the number and John would be the one to have forwarded that information along.  She excused herself and checked her voicemail.  Indeed, it was Lestrade.  She could see Dave doing a lot of talking and Sherlock taking great amounts of restraint from blasting her friend with his skills.  Shannon already knew Dave was seeing a girl, that she was a blonde, he was eating well and such.  She listened intently to her message and hung up, returning to the gentlemen in the hall.

“Well, Dave, it’s been fun.  You got your butt handed to you; and you managed to weasel your way out of paying.  I have things to do – give me a call in a few days,” she said warmly as she pocketed her phone.  She grabbed him up in a quick hug and smacked his face playfully, “I’ll get that hundred dollars out of you yet.”

Sherlock stiffened sllighly.  “And what exactly do you have to do, Miss Byrns?”  _Is this jealousy?_

“Pay attention, I told you and John this morning.  I’m assuming that you’re tagging along?”  She waved at her best friend as he turned to grab his things and go to work.

Sherlock got up and walked by her side, “I found that intriguing.”  There was aloofness to his voice.

“Be quiet,” she reprimanded.  “You heard; I haven’t played for a month.”

“That’s not what I was referring to,” he clasped his hands behind his back.  “You restrained yourself from showing off.  And not trumpet player showing off.  Why?”

Outside, Shannon flagged down a cab and looked up at him, “Dave was my best friend before my brain went into hyper drive.  It is unfair to disregard him.  I love him for who he is flaws and all.”

“Love is meaningless,” he retorted, holding the door open for her.  “It is an illusion and continues to be the fall of man.”

They sat beside each other.  She told the cabbie where to drive to and looked over at him, “I didn’t say I was in love with him, Sherlock.  I love him for who he is.  To an extent, in a similar fashion that’s comparable to how you feel towards John.”

“I don’t care about John,” he furrowed his brow.  “Caring is a disadvantage.”

“Do you keep saying that hoping that you’ll believe it eventually?” she asked, stretching her sore leg out.  “Because I don’t think you believe that.  Your actions speak volumes.”

He looked down, “You didn’t let me take notes on your bite this morning.”

“Very good,” she affirmed sarcastically.  “I had things to do.  You can write your notes when we get back.”

He nodded, “Lestrade’s under the impression you’re going alone.  Perhaps it’s best to allow him to think that.  If you’re planning on schmoozing your way into gathering more information from Eddie, my being there will only exacerbate the situation.”

She leaned against his arm as she closed her eyes in thought.  “It’s not convincing him that I will have any problem with,” she sighed, “It’ll be getting the actual interrogation that will require some finesse.”  His fingertips rested on the back of her hand and she smiled.  “I’m trying to think, Mr. Holmes.”

He calculated her response, “Am I that much of a distraction?  Is this going to be difficult for you?”  Her lips, he observed, were red and full from trumpet playing.  He wanted to know what they felt like.  On impulse he brushed his thumb across her lower lip.

She quirked an eyebrow, “Satisfied?  So, day three: Acting on minor impulse.  You’ll have to jot that down.  My turn.”  She leaned over and kissed the side of his mouth.  Her lips had been tingling and been numb from playing; but the mild release of adrenaline made it better.  She leaned back into her spot on the seat and put her head back on the headrest.  She closed her eyes and heaved a heavy sigh.  She felt his fingertips start to draw small, lazy circles on her backhand.

“You won’t be getting anything more out of me right now, Sherlock.  Firstly, I’m gross from working out.  Secondly, I’m thinking about how I’m going to approach Lestrade.”

Sherlock was still processing her actions and appreciating the lasting warmth on the side of his mouth, “I have no worries that you won’t use your resourcefulness to do so.”

“I’m going to be a problem, Sherlock,” she said thoughtfully as her nose crinkled.

“Undoubtedly, yes,” he replied calmly.

She smirked wickedly, “And you are okay with that?”

“I’m unsure,” he replied honestly.

She turned her hand over and gently covered his fingers with her own.  “You seem to have a knack for liking problems, Sherlock Holmes.  I solemnly hope that I prove to not be that much of a problem for you.”

He smiled warmly, “You’re lying, Shannon Byrns.”  They sat in comfortable silence for most of the trip. When they weren’t far from the coffee shop, Sherlock told the cabbie he was to get off here.  Shannon opened her eyes to take in where she was, not that it would fully make sense considering she was in a foreign country.  “I have a few leads to work out from another case I’m working.  Then I’m paying Mycroft another visit.”

“Oh good,” she said, “Since you’re going; please do convince him that I need a working visa.  I’d like to make some money while I’m here – just in case; and I don’t feel like having him ship me off to prison because of spite.”  Sherlock gave a small nod.  “If I feel I can’t handle things, I will text you both; don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Yes you are,” she replied pointing at his face through the open door window.  “I can see it.  Your mind and your voice may try to fool me; and you may have John fooled most of the time.  But I’m looking far more closely than John is.”

He stiffened and squared his shoulders.  “I should be so flattered.”

“But you’re not,” she pondered looking up contemplatively to the sky with a smug grin.  “You started this; you can’t chicken out now that I’m playing along.”  She nodded for the cabbie to continue onward and she drove away.  He went about on his way into a residential area to look for clues concerning his other current case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen,
> 
> Part one of this set is coming to an end. In the interest of timing and waiting for S3 to air so that I can link them together, I'm opting to make this a series.  
> I'm interested in your thoughts and concerns. Let me know what you think, I will answer back everyone!


	21. Refraction

She made it to the coffee house on time and took a seat at one of the smaller tables.  She sat there patiently sipping her coffee and reading the paper as she casually eyed the people in the room with her.  Lestrade walked in a few minutes later, apologetic.

“Sorry, Shannon; got stuck going to the office first; it was a long night.  You look awful, are you alright?”

“Morning,” she replied, motioning for him to take a seat.  He trots to the counter to get his coffee and danish returning to take his seat.  “Thank you for that.”

“No,” he retreated, “I just meant is everything okay?  Holmes can be a taxing individual and you just look to be in a state of sorts.”

She laughed loudly.  “I’m in a state because I just got done grappling for two hours and went to University of West London to work with a bunch of kids,” she picked up her gig bag, “And I haven’t been home to shower.  I do apologize.”

“Ah, no; no, I’m sorry.  I’m surprised you were able to get away and be on your own, to be fair.  I half expected John to be here,” he quipped.  “Seems that John’s the only one that cares for your peace of mind.”

She folded her paper into her lap.  “Detective, are you speaking to me as a victim, a suspect, or a friend?   I did not come here today to be interrogated,” she replied coolly.

“God, how do you do that?” he folded his arms across his chest.  “How can you possibly be so much like him yet you…” he trailed off for a moment, looking at her physique.  “You are a goddess.”

“Flattery works well for you, then?” she replied under lidded eyes.  “I’m what people like to call a triple threat:  Smart, pretty, and occasionally humble.”

“How are you single?” he asked breathlessly.

She sipped her coffee, “Luck.”  She set her coffee cup on the table and crossed her at the knee.  “I have a knack for being truly upsetting when I don’t intend to make people feel inferior.  Keep in mind, I did just lose my brother recently; I have been preoccupied.”

“Of course,” he reeled back, “All this must be devastating.”

“It’s simply the course of events that I have been given to deal with accordingly,” she shrugged as she stretched her arms behind her head.  “It makes no use to whine about them to everyone all the time; I must deal with it.  So – I’m going to do so in my own fashion.  I’ll take them all down.  I’m speaking hypothetically, of course.”

There was a hint of malice in her voice that set Greg on edge.  It would take an idiot to realize that she wasn’t tenacious.  “I should warn you, Shannon, that we can handle this.”

“Of course,” she nodded, “About as well as Boston PD and the FBI are.  It’s nothing personal.  I’m just agitated.”

He finished his danish and licked his thumb, “If you need anything, you let me know.  If Sherlock’s willing to keep going at this case, then so am I.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Greg, please,” he replied.  “So, tell me about yourself, Shannon.  Put this case aside, let’s hear you.  John speaks highly of you, you know.”

“Shannon Byrns, born on the eastern half of the United States, scored a 158 on my IQ test four months ago, my favorite color is blue, I’ve played the trumpet for the better part of sixteen years; I attended a conservatory in Ohio for university and graduated with a BM in Music Education, the market sucks and I can’t hold anything but substitute jobs right now, I recently started trials of the extremes of the human body on myself; including but not limited to documenting the stages and effects of hypothermia.  I like to read, music is important obviously, and I have an odd sense of loyalty to those I surround myself with.”  Greg lost interest somewhere along the way and was nodding approvingly to her in a haze.  She rolled her eyes, “I also murder people for fun and have psychopathic tendencies.”

“Wow, that’s amazing.”

“Would you do me a favor,” she asked sweetly.  His attention perked up.  “I need to talk to Eddie again.”

He sighed quickly, “I don’t think that’s wise.  He’s broken – I don’t know what my anonymous tipsters did to him; but he’s gone.”

“I doubt that,” she replied crossing her arms.  _That’s it, Greg.  Be a guy for two seconds and look at my chest.  There you go._   “I think he’s faking it.  And I know he’s got more information up in that head of his.”

Lestrade licked his lips dryly, “Shannon, it’s just not possible.”

“Probable,” she corrected.  “When do you start work?”

“In a couple hours,” he replied in a question.

She shouldered her gig bag and duffle bag and stood up with a mischievous grin, “Well then, I better get working.”

“Shannon, you can’t just waltz into Scotland Yard and see a perp.  It doesn’t work like that!” he called after her.

She bent down to his ear and whispered, “You’re right, it shouldn’t work like that.”

He had the mind to call the office and have them put Eddie on surveillance; but a little part of him wanted to see if she genuinely was as good as she thought she was.  He made the vow to himself that if she succeeded, he’d ask her out on a date before John got the chance.

 

Sherlock sat in the living room of a nice house as a frantic wife recounted her day.  Her husband had been kidnapped, apparently.  He needed to talk to the son, but he was at school.  _What an inconvenience._ This would certainly be more of an open and shut case than Shannon’s.  Hers had intrigue, and more importantly an anonymous shadow hiding in the background pulling the strings.  Far more interesting that some missing banker that no doubt had been mixed up in some unsavoury actions.  No matter.  It would take some time to actually wait for the ransom note before he could go about doing anything else.

“Madam, have you received some indication that he’s not just with a mistress?  It’s quite common…”

She’s screeching at him.  He doesn’t really care what she’s saying; her reaction is what he was after.  She has nothing to do with it.  Interesting.

“Thank you, madam, for your input.  Please contact either myself or my associate, Doctor John Watson, when you get the ransom note – regardless of its media type.  Thank you.  I have another appointment to attend to, we’ll be in touch; I’m sure.”

Outside he pricked up the collar of his coat and buttoned his coat closed.  He decided it best to just text his brother.  Two visits in just as many days made him feel ill.

 

_Mycroft:_

_Miss Byrns is in need of a work visa.  
I’m sure that you can accommodate._

_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_I am not a carnival game where you can get prizes._

_-MH_

_Mycroft:_

_Need I remind you why she’s here to begin with?  
Do it, or she will._

_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_You both are juvenile.  It will catch up with you._

_-MH_

He looked at his watch and determined it was time to head back to Baker Street and listen to the other files on Shannon’s laptop.  Perhaps he would be able to understand what they were _unlocking_ in her mind without her having to listen to them all.  There was a possibility that listening to them could ultimately undo her and he knew John would prefer that he listen to them first.

 

Shannon walked into the department store and looked about.  She needed something smart if this was going to work.  She had learned at her university that when in a crisis and you had to do serious recon, Macy’s was the place to be.  This store would work just as well.

She walked up and down racks, grabbing this and that to go and try on.  A security guard walked past, eyeing her as she went, most likely because she was carrying those bags and to be sure she wasn’t stealing.  She looked up, “Sir, could you do me a favor?  I want to go try these on; but I can’t take my bags in.  Could you hold them for me?  I won’t be more than five minutes!”

He knew that he should find an attendant or something of the like, but he nodded and she unshouldered her bags.  She ran into the fitting room quickly, trying on the clothing for fit.  She hung the clothing, dressed and came out.  The guard was surprised and watched as the put the articles she didn’t want on the rack.  She held her items in hand proudly, gave him her thanks, and made her way to another department.  _Clothing, done.  Shoes.  I need shoes.  And accessories…_   She made lightning quick decisions and ran to the makeup counters.

She chose the MAC counter because she needed to be out of character.  She looked to the girl and started to tear up.  “Uh, excuse me…”

The representative looked up and arched her brow, “Yes, can I help you?”

 _Oh, that’s right, bitch.  You’re all mine._ “Uhm, I’m sorry – I don’t…” she cried.  “I have an interview today at a big advertising firm and I was attacked this morning!”  She pointed at her leg.  “I lost everything when they set fire to my home.  I can pay!  But I need to land this job if I’m going to start over!  Can you do my makeup?  I’ll buy everything that you use!”  The tears fell rapidly

She made her hands shaky as she pulled out her wallet, giving herself some steadying breaths.  The representative’s eyes softened, “Oh, sweetheart, it’ll be fine.  Let’s get you fixed up.  We really don’t do this sort of thing, but I’ll get you ready, darling, don’t you worry!”

The girl ushered Shannon into the chair and began prepping her.  “There’s some ghastly bruising here…we’ll take care of that.  And I can fix that leg up so that no one will know.  Did you just go shopping for today’s wardrobe, love?”

Shannon wiped away her tears and nodded, opening the bags.  “You’re going to drop them dead with that!” she gasped, “I’m going to make you pop.  They’re definitely going to remember you. Now, how artsy you want to go?”

“I trust you,” Shannon nodded weakly, “Thank you so much.  You’re the first person that’s been nice to me today.”

“Honey,” she cooed, rubbing primer on her face, “Girls gotta stick together.  Now, take a breath and let’s get rid of some of that redness.”

 

Shannon left the store with a new face on.  She found the restrooms and changed into her new costume, teased her hair into something a little more dramatic, and slipped on her new shoes.  
All said and done, she was stunning.  She spent a tad more on makeup than she anticipated, but she’d definitely use the product again if it worked as well as she knew it would.  She took a minute to look at herself in the mirror.  She was a work of art and it only took an hour.  Her hair was in soft waves and had hints of red in it, courtesy of a colored mousse she found at the drug store.  Her face was bright and flawless, her eyes rimmed in a charcoal color and a gradient of greens and golds swept across her lids.  Her lips were stained a light, shimmery peach and looked as if they would leap out from her face.  _That trumpet playing helped this morning_.  The makeup artist had put a small piece of tissue across her bite and painted it.  She wore a long-sleeved emerald green blouse that billowed slightly at the cuff underneath a tight charcoal-grey vest with matching pencil skirt.  Her thigh-high stockings were a blessing: there was no way she could have wriggled into a regular pair in a timely fashion, and her black patent-leather shoes gave her two inches or so.  Today, she was the epitome of power.

The girl from the counter gave her some perfume to wear that she felt would make an impression.  It would suit her fine – but it wasn’t what she wore and it bothered her.  It was bold, but not her.  For the sake of this romp, perfection.  She came out to show off to the girl at the counter who applauded loudly.

“Honey!  You look stunning!  You are going to rock that interview.  Now you go and get ‘em, and you come back and tell me how you did when you find out.  The name’s Michelle.”

Shannon smiled brightly, feeling as if her muscles would disintegrate from overuse.  She grabbed her bags and walked outside to catch a cab.  She texted John to inform him that she’d be stopping by briefly to drop something off.  Hailing a cab, _This is easier than normal. I can’t imagine why,_ she told the cabbie which clinic to take her to and keep the meter running when she ran inside.

When she walked into the clinic, the nurse was astounded to see her.  “Hello, can I help you?”

“Yes, please,” she lifted her duffle and trumpet up on the counter.  “John Watson is expecting these.  He told me he’d take them home for me.  Thank you so much!  And here’s a little something for your trouble because you’re not a courier service,” she grinned, slipping the nurse twenty quid.  She turned and walked out, clicking in her wake.

After his most recent patient, the nurse knocked on the door.  “Dr. Watson, your girlfriend came by and dropped off some bags, I just wanted to let you know they’re put away.  Remember to take them with you tonight.  And might I say, she’s a looker!” she gave a flirtatious wink.

“But – “ the door closed.  He sat dumbfounded.  “I don’t have a girlfriend.  Oh,” he laughed looking to his phone.  “I do for today.”

Shannon briskly got into the cab and had him drive her to Scotland Yard.  The cabbie was all too eager to oblige when he got a quick glimpse of her cleavage.  Shannon reached into the clutch she purchased and pulled out some costume jewelry: a draping gold necklace that plunged between her breasts, a ring, and some earrings.  She put them on and flattened out her skirt.  _Mindset, Shannon.  Let’s go.  Lawyer.  No…  Mafia Boss.  YES._

She paid the driver and gave him a hefty tip.  “Look, I’m an American, and we tip.  So just keep it.”

“I’ll be waiting for you after, ma’am.  Take your time,” he commented kindly.

She nodded, shook her head slightly, and strode into the Yard like she owned the place.  She made her way upstairs and started causing a commotion.  A young detective approached her, “Ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

Shannon stood at eye level with him and pulled out her best Italian mafia Don impression.  “Look, whatever your name is, I got a phone call while I was on vacation in Nova Scotia saying that my cousin got himself into trouble.  I had to fly all the way over here and I’ve been stonewalled the entire time I’ve been here.  Now, who are you?”

“DI Dimmock,” he replied with disdain, “And you are?”

“Eva Cascioli, no relation of course – to those people of … distaste back home.”  She laughed darkly.

Dimmock was not amused and just wanted her out of there, “And who do we have in custody?”

“Eddie the Moron!” she snarled.  “I’m going to rip him a new one when I get to talk to that boy.”

“Right,” he said, flipping through the intake log.  “Have a seat – calm down.  I’ll see if he’s allowed visitors.”

About eight minutes later, Donovan walked in and didn’t notice her other than to say ‘Nice skirt’.  Not long after, Dimmock ushered Shannon into a private room with Eddie cuffed to the table.

“Now, he’s cuffed for a reason.  Do not pass him anything; we’ll be watching,” he pointed to the camera.  “Do you understand me?”

“Crystal,” she seethed.

The door clicked behind her and she sat down.  Eddie looked up, “I don’t have a cousin that’s a she.  So who the fuck are you?”

“Boss sent me,” she lied, raising the pitch of her voice up.  “We got wind that she’s been difficult to _wrangle_ , so to speak.  I’m the new handler.  I need brought up to speed, immediately, or I have been instructed to leave you to rot here.”  She glanced closely, his contacts weren’t in.  _Lady luck, thank you for being such a fucking awesome bitch._ “Where are your glasses?”

“I don’t have them,” he spat, “And they took my contacts away from me because shit got in my eyes.”

She heaved a sigh and shook her head, “What a fucking mess.  Spill – or I’m done.  I don’t have time for this.”

Eddie groaned and rolled his head around, “She’s paired up with that Sherlock fuck.  They nailed me the other night.  I think her mind is fully open; but she’s got some memory gaps still and even though she knows what Geist is – I don’t think she’s activated yet.  Once she is, it’ll be better to just put a bullet into her head.  Boss told me either he has that information, or no one does.”

Shannon tapped her fingers on the table loudly, “What a clusterfuck; anything else I need to be aware of?”

“She’s been doing a lot of digging,” he grumbled, “I know she’s got Matt’s files somewhere.  We’ve tracked her to somewhere near the Baker Street station, but then we lost her.  She’s got friends around here, too.  One of them lives over near UWL somewhere.  Bruno was set to track him down.  I’ve been cut off since I got in here.  Oh, and one more thing,” he gave a malicious grin, “What happened to Lisa?”

“Lisa has been dealt with,” she replied emotionlessly.  “I take this job very seriously.  My instructions are to leave no collateral damage and I’m to be _exceedingly_ thorough.  We want to know if there’s any reason that you shouldn’t’ be considered as a loss.  How many more are here?  I need to know if I have to make some calls.”

“There’s Bruno, two other guys, and you already dealt with Lisa.”  She growled in the back of her throat.  His eyes widened, “Look, she’s terrifying.  You know?  She’s smart like Matt, but she’s a genius – and where Matt would stop for self-preservation, she’s taking no prisoners.  She wants to bring every damn one of us down.  If she activates without Boss there to slip in the code word or whatever, she’ll do it.  And those two asses she’s been with won’t stop her.”

“Wonderful,” she griped sarcastically, “Now, remember, I’m Eva Cascioli as far as you’re concerned, I’m your cousin, and I’m from New York.  You’re now to be a babbling idiot.  I will come back for you.”  He nodded and closed his eyes.

She got up knocked on the door and was released into the hallway.  Dimmock was close by, “Are you quite finished?”

“Yeah, one last thing.  I have to leave a note to some La-strayd guy.  He was the one who notified us that he was here.”  She scribbled on a piece of paper, folded it, and put it in an envelope she swiped off a desk.  “He gets is today, capiche?”

“Fine,” he looked to one of the other sergeants to walk her out.  She left, completely strutting her fake persona all over the place and pulled her phone of her clutch.

 

_Sherlock Holmes:_

_I’m not picking milk up.  
I’m going hunting._

She replaced her mobile and grinned smugly.  The cabbie dutifully waited for her and she slinked into the back seat.  “Baker Street Station.”


	22. The Noble Dog

John walked into the lounge of their flat and found Sherlock lying on the couch with his eyes shut and the sound of static and electronic waves filling the air.  It was annoying to say the least.  “Sherlock?”

His eyes bolted open, “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“What’s that?  I can’t hear anything but garbage.”

“Exactly,” the detective breathed.  “There are studies done every year on how static noise affects the mind and tricks it into releasing chemicals and endorphins.”

“Okay,” John frowned as Sherlock got up and grabbed his coat, “I seem to remember reading something about it once a while ago.”

Sherlock slipped into the blue coat and put on his scarf, “We have to assume then, that Matt put information in her head and locked them away with a specific combination of white noise.  It’s brilliant.”

“Great.  Are we going somewhere?” he sighed.  He gently put Shannon’s bags down on the floor.

“Come on, John,” he grinned manically, “We have some work to do pertaining to a missing banker!  Let’s go.”

“What about Shannon?”

“She told us to have quality time together, did she not?”

John pouted indignantly, “I hate you both.”

The Baker Street Boys went out into the evening on the prowl for information and leads.  They ended up at art galleries, a jazz club, a museum, and a whole slew of other places over the course of the night as they gathered more and more evidence.

Sherlock was asking the head waiter of the banker’s most frequented bistro about the man’s habits and last visit when the both his and John’s phones sounded.  Mild panic filled Sherlock’s gut.  John looked to his screen as Sherlock finished collecting information and the pair headed outside.

“What did she say?” Sherlock nipped briskly.

John looked to the screen and read verbatim, “Boys, assistance is required.  Not requested.  Baker Street Station.  Now, not when you feel like it.  Utility closet.”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted about as he brought up his map of London in his mind’s eye.  _Fastest way to the station…_   He went through the various mediums of travel and pathways, and running would get them there six minutes faster.  “John!” he yelled as he took off.

Quick at his heels, John ran full tilt and caught up easily very grateful to being fit.  They zigzagged in and out of back alleys and main roads, even cutting through a restaurant to get to an alley.  They took the stairs to the underground two at a time and running into the main lobby.  John pulled out his Oyster Card to pay for the both of them to enter and they split in separate directions to look for a door marked _No Access_.  John heard a woman groan loudly from his end of the station and yelled for Sherlock to come back.

 _Where are you?  Why won’t you call out?_   “SHANNON!” John screamed loudly.  They kept running about until they found what they hoped was their prized door.  John kicked the door hard and put a slight dent there.  The door slowly opened to reveal a large man with close cropped hair unconscious on the floor with Shannon standing in the corner looking at her watch.

“Boys,” she smiled sarcastically, “What kept you?”

Sherlock looked to her first as John attended to the man on the ground.  That clothing was not brought with her; he would have seen it when he was in her room earlier.  _And just a tad too tight – not that I mind_.  He gave her a once over.  _Jewelry – a necklace that keeps falling – Oh!  That’s why.  Her hair’s got red in it.  I don’t like it.  Her eyes seem vivid.  But they’re normally so average?  Trick of color to bounce light beams off to give the appearance…_   Shannon wagged a finger at him and pointed to John.

John stood up and stammered, “Zafergabrshd… Er… I mean.  Wow.”

“I’ll take that a compliment,” she said with a tick of her head and another smile.  “I should start keeping a tally of bets that I have with people so I can completely collect.  Lestrade would owe me money at this point.”

“What – er – what exactly happened?  The man’s unconscious, but his vitals seem stable,” John said breathlessly, taking in her attire and that she was stunning.

Shannon explained that her idea of hunting was to lure one of the three remaining guys into a trap for interrogation.  That all went well, she just didn’t expect the janitor to lock the door so suddenly and leave her trapped there.  “Believe it or not, I just didn’t have anywhere to put my lock-pick kit,” she quipped sarcastically as she gestured down the length of her torso.

Shannon looked over at Sherlock and saw his nose crinkle, “I had to make some modifications to my wardrobe and vain tendencies today.  I’m not a fan of the perfume,” she grimaced, “But it suited its purpose.  This guy,” she gave a swift kick to his gut, “Calls himself Mike.  He’s a bit of a pervert, if that surprises you.  He thought he’d have some fun before I was taken in.  I’m not one for fun on introductions.  So thank you, guys, for getting me out.  I would have been here all night and that just wouldn’t have been pleasant.”

Sherlock’s fingers itched to touch her, somehow.  He wanted to wrap his arms around her for whatever reason, he wasn’t sure, and gloat to John about her amazing abilities.  John extended her his hand and helped her walk over the man’s body.

“He’s also restrained.  Oh, yes,” she pulled out her phone from her clutch, closing the door behind her forcefully.

 

_DI Lestrade:_

_I told you so._   
_Baker Street Station._   
_End of your shift._   
_Present._   
_Bring a squad car with you._   
_Utility closet on the left._

She put her phone away and rolled up her sleeves.  “Now, where were we?  Ah yes,” she grinned fishing her hands to John and Sherlock’s elbows, “How was your date night?”

“Still not gay,” John whined.

“Get over it,” she reprimanded jovially, “You two are the perfect example of a bromance; it’s endearing.”

“It went fine,” Sherlock said plainly as he pulled Shannon’s arm all the way through.  John followed suit.  “We got a few leads and learned some of the banker’s habits.  It appears as if he was genuinely kidnapped.  At this point, I’m waiting for a ransom note.”

They walked like that all the way back to Baker Street, the three of them, arm in arm.  It was maybe a block or two.  Sherlock then realized she was in heels because she was taller and that she had shivered.

Without a word, he unbuttoned his coat, shrugged it off, and wrapped it around her shoulders.  John gave a smile similar to that of a proud parent and Sherlock glared back at him.  She gave a nod of thanks and they kept walking as they filled each other in on the escapades of the day.

Mrs. Hudson met them at the door, returning from her bridge group.  “Well, don’t the three of you make a sight!” she beamed.

John smiled and gave a nod to the other two and winked at Mrs. Hudson.  “It certainly has been a day.”

“Did the three of you have fun out and about,” she asked unlocking the door.

Shannon laughed heartily, “Something like that.  I’m actually going to get some dinner.  So if anyone wants to tag along, you’re more than welcome.  I mean it.  You’re all invited.”

“No thank you, dear, I just got done eating at my game,” Mrs. Hudson replied gently, “I’ve got some things to do about the house tomorrow before I leave.  I’m out for the weekend, boys.  Do not destroy the flat!”

John’s face was nothing short of devilish, “Not me, thanks though.  I’ve got some journals to read up on.  Sherlock hasn’t eaten today, though.”

Sherlock’s face fell as he realized what John was doing.  He wasn’t amused.

“He had some toast this morning,” she reminded as she walked away.  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

John looked at his friend, agitated and motioned for him to follow, which Sherlock appeared to do so begrudgingly.  It was far from the truth.  _There’s a seam in the back of those stockings.  I hadn’t noticed.  What a pleasant surprise._   He walked briskly forward to catch up muttering to himself as John closed the door behind him.

“I don’t like the perfume,” he said.  “It doesn’t fit.”

“So I noticed,” she goaded with an elbow to his side.

His coat was hiding everything that he wanted to see.  “Eddie believes you’re his new handler then?  That must mean that they can change semi-frequently.  What moron would do something like that and risk an entire ‘corporation’ over a verbal slip up? This Boss character’s getting sloppy.  I can’t say that the makeup suits you, but your features are more pronounced.”

“Thank you,” she said plainly as she wrapped her hand around his arm.  “I had to beg to get this done.  I even shed tears.  I was convincing to say the least.”

He looked down at her as she stared ahead, “I’m sure.  That outfit suits you.”  He followed the trail her necklace forged.  _I view ‘beauty’ objectively.  I can’t with you._

She eyed him playfully, “I saw that.”  She gave his arm a small squeeze.  “You’re almost being charming, Sherlock Holmes, in your own way.”

“I’d hate to be boring,” he said stoically.

Shannon looked at the cameras, “Your brother’s watching.  I’d kiss you now if I knew you wouldn’t be getting a text immediately after.”

He blinked at her in surprise.  _She doesn’t want to give Mycroft satisfaction. Oh, yes.  You are wonderful.  And you, Sherlock, are a moron._   “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome.  You can collect later.”

They found a small hole in the wall place after a deal of walking and settled on just having drinks because it was late.  He picked it because it was always far warmer than necessary inside.  It would give her an excuse to take his jacket off and she did exactly as he suspected.  She handed him his coat and he draped it over the back of his chair.  He did, however, enjoy the view of her immensely.

His light shirt reflected well off his face and made his eyes appear brighter.  Those eyes, she noticed, always approached everything they viewed with a certain calculated innocence and wonder – even when his mind wasn’t surprised.  They reflected the world back at you often and could easily leave you feeling unsettled.  It only made sense to her that they belonged to him.  A pair of eyes on anyone else would be unjust and comical.

“Observing?” he said lowly as he intertwined his fingers together and propped his elbows up on the table.  “Don’t answer, of course you were.”

She blinked slowly and refocused on his face rather than each particular section.  She thanked the waiter as the roast dinner was set in front of her.  She rotated the plate with the meat facing her and the chips facing her partner.  _Partner?  Is that what you’re calling it?_

“I expect you to eat a little.  Not a whole lot; but something.  Call it humouring me.”

His lips parted as if he were to speak in protest but he simply nodded.  “How was coffee with Lestrade?”

She shrugged after she had taken a bite of her dinner.  “He’s obviously won over by my _radiant_ personality.  I mean looks.  He asked me to speak of myself,” she replied kindly, “I ended with liking murdering people for fun.  He wasn’t paying attention.”  She looked up at him as she took another bite of her dinner and motioned to the chips.

There wasn’t a grimace, or an eye roll; not even a scowl.  He just picked up the fry and ate it as if it were casual; as if it were something that he did all the time.  Opting to not make a spectacle of it because she knew that he might be fickle, she continued.  “I asked _politely_ if I could see Eddie again; and he started to back pedal.  He more or less said ‘no’ and I was then obliged to get my way.  I’d say it worked.”

With a look of approval, Sherlock raised his brow, “And I’m sure that Lestrade didn’t see you at the Yard?”

“Of course not,” she chimed as she took a sip of her water, “He wasn’t working yet.  DI Dimmock, however, probably detests my existence.  I aimed for Mafia Don; seemed to work just fine.”

They both chuckled and Shannon pushed her plate over to Sherlock.  “I’m done, pick at it if you want.  Also, I saw John drop a box off in your room from your press to-do yesterday.  Their token of appreciation was what, a tie tack?”

“No,” he scoffed.  “Diamond cufflinks.  I don’t wear cufflinks.”

“I noticed.  You use the buttons on your sleeves.  That doesn’t mean that they may not come in handy later.  You can always stash them and use them in one of your ‘disguises’,” she used her fingers to form quotation marks.

He pondered for a moment, “I suppose.  It’s just an impractical token of appreciation.”

“The point and sentiment is that they are expensive.”

“They’re not.”

“Sherlock, I also said sentiment.”

“Oh.  I see.”

“Not entirely, but I’m sure you’ll learn eventually.  You’ve spent a lot of time setting yourself apart from the rest of society, Sherlock Holmes.  I’m glad that you have John.”

He looked up slowly at her deep in comprehension.  “I don’t have John.”

“You do; you’ll realize it sooner or later.  John surprises you – I know you’ve noticed.  I think his loyalty perplexed you for a long time.  That’s okay though, Sherlock, that’s what a friend is,” she folded her hands on the table.  She wanted to hold him and tell him things would be okay or shake him for being a naïve child.  She wasn’t sure, but these frank discussions with him were insightful to how hurt he had been throughout his childhood.  She could see his skepticism in his eyes, “I’d say trust me; but I find that phrase is tossed around too loosely anymore.  You’ll just have to wait and see.”

The two conversed amicably until he was finished grazing over her plate and the pair walked home.  She enjoyed the cool air now since it had been so warm in the restaurant.  He wasn’t complaining:  Her silhouette was pleasing him.  He wanted to touch her again, but she refused his arm after he offered.  _Think.  What have you done that could have offended her?  You ate.  You conversed.  You weren’t overly difficult, as John would put it.  What changed?_

She looked up to the sky in silent admiration at the celestial bodies that glittered there.  Well, they would be if there hadn’t been such light pollution.  She spun about as she walked, a small smile snuck to her lips.  She loved the stars.

“Why are you smiling?  They aren’t readily visible because…”

“Sherlock,” she warned.  He stopped and frowned at her.  “Do you know much about astronomy?”

“What does it matter?” he asked defensively.  “They are beyond my control and perspective – so it doesn’t matter.”

She smiled lazily, “I wasn’t asking to be spiteful.  It was a genuine question.  I don’t know much about chemistry.  You don’t see me getting all defensive about it when you clearly outsmart me.”  She paused and saw a glint in the night.  “You see, that star there,” she pointed and waited until his gaze followed, “That’s Sirius.  Technically, it’s a binary star system, because Sirius B is its companion dwarf star.  That’s funny, you see, because Sirius B, as a dwarf, is about the size of our sun.  It’s also a little over eight light-years away.  Outside of the sun, it’s the brightest star in our sky.”

“Knowing this information does little for me.  Trivia doesn’t get logged into my mind,” he stated.

She shot him a side glance, “Yet you know what good music is and you play an instrument.  To other people, those personality factors seem trivial.”

He pouted.  “Your point?”

“This is just your friendly reminder that someone can be as smart as you; just in different facets – that’s all.”  Her voice was plain and sincere, eliciting a small smile from the detective.

She fished her key out of her clutch and opened the door; and, as soon as the threshold was crossed she kicked off her heels.  “Thank you, God.”  She tentatively flattened her feet to the floor and stretched, “They may do wonders to boost the ego and make legs look fabulous, but I’m done for a while.  Breaking in new shoes is not fun.  And I can’t wait to get out of this getup.”

“Neither can I,” he whispered; then shocked that it was audible.  He looked up at her horrified.

She placed a hand on the lapel of his coat, “Stay put for a second, if you’d please.”  He grimaced as his flight instincts kicked in.  “Please.”

 _Her voice is firm.  And airing on kind.  Why?  I’ve said something considered vulgar, have I not?_   He looked away down the hall in agreement, his face placid.

She quietly padded upstairs and ducked into the kitchen.  John was nowhere to be seen, and the gentle snoring from his room was indicative that those journals worked.  She headed to the bathroom and quickly washed her war paint off of her face taking great care not to get her clothes wet.  Her hair would need brushed out and the color was awful.  She’d take care of that in the shower later.  She dried her face off with the towel and silently made her way downstairs just as she was picking up her bags John brought home.  She opened the door to her room after picking up her shoes and clutch and motioned for him to enter.

She walked in and found her dingy room had been transformed in her absence.  There was furniture now in dark tones everywhere.  Her mattress had been replaced and a genuine bed was there in its place, along with a small dresser, a music stand, a trumpet stand, and a small loveseat.

“How could you have known that I did this today?” he queried bewildered.  “I didn’t think I was followed!”

 _Speechless.  Shannon, you’re speechless.  You have to close your mouth and retry to say something.  He went and bought you furniture_.  _That’s something very endearing for this man, give him a break._   She shook her inner voice out of her head, “I didn’t follow you – I just invited you in to invite you in…thank you, Sherlock.”

He straightened up and beamed, “I felt that I was the most qualified to pick out the pieces considering what I’ve observed.  John agreed to paint down here if you so desire.”  He paused and turned his head slowly toward her, “You’ve washed your face.”

She nodded as she crossed her arms, “I have.  Very good.”  He strode over to her and used more scrutiny in his gaze.  She noticed he had left his coat and scarf on the bannister on the way down.  She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him chastely.

A quiet confidence stepped into Sherlock’s buzzing head.  He grasped her arms lightly and lifted her back to her toes and returned the kiss.  He would never tell anyone other than her that he was enjoying himself.  He released her and smirked under weighted lids, “Quid pro quo.”

She gripped the lapels of his jacket and asked plainly, “Are we still testing extremes, Sherlock Holmes?”

“I haven’t called off my trial in the matter.  Are you worried?”

She met his gaze with deep, dark eyes.  She unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it off his shoulders as she rounded him, taking care to drape it over her new loveseat.  They turned around each other much like a pair of predators squaring off before a fight as they moved about her room.   He reached out and grabbed the neck of her vest to pull her to him.  He watched her face as his hands took their time to undo each button carefully.  His hands palmed her shoulders as he stripped her of her article of clothing and admired her blouse.  _Also, tight – and it’s pleasing me._

As she turned to stare at him, he had slipped off his shoes and left them near the door.  She raked her nails deftly across his back and around to his chest.  She looked to her hands as each button was undone.  She knew he was enjoying watching her – _no sense in taking his candy away yet_.  With the shirt completely free and his cuffs unbuttoned as well, she left it on his frame and moved back to the center of the room.  The golden light from her new table lamp was playing wonderful tricks with shadow.  If it were possible, he looked more stunning to her than he had yet.  Sherlock made quick work of the clasp and zipper of her skirt and held her hand as she stepped out of it.  Expertly, it was kicked to the side.  She unbuttoned his trousers and let them hang loosely at his waist and he finally made easy work of her blouse, peeling it off of her torso with care as he tossed it with his jacket.

To anyone else, she realized, this was almost proper – Victorian if you would like, how the pair of them cautiously approached one another.  It was a bizarre scenario, surely, but there was no other way that she could think would be more fitting to a pairing such as theirs.  Here she was, down to her bra, knickers, jewelry, and stockings, _Thank God you had the forethought to buy a matching set, you idiot,_ and he was still clothed in a sense.

His mouth went dry and a knot was forming in his gut.  Her side was hideously bruised and her right hand was still angry from splitting her knuckle open.  There was a slight shadow at her knee where the bruising should be and her bite was still hidden well.  Her sculpted form glowed in the low light.  _Artists painted women such as her.  She was their muse_.  She placed her hands on her waist with splayed fingers: it was a power stance.

He paused in his admirations, “I’m still clothed more than you.”

Her face was calm but he could see her wrestling impulse and her body.  “I’m giving you the power to control the extreme,” she voiced softly.  “It’s your experiment, is it not?”  She began taking off her jewelry and leaving them on the top of her dresser.

 _Now that is new.  Relinquishing control?  But she’s still so powerful – look at her.  Why would she trust me with that prized possession?_   He walked in front of her puzzled.  Vulnerability crossed his face.

“Oh for God’s sake,” she whispered, exasperated as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard.  His arms reflexively wrapped themselves around her waist and he staggered back.  He didn’t recall her pulling his shirt down over his shoulders nor did she remember him unclasping her bra.

For all their ‘decorum’ five minutes ago, this was a shit show.  This was messy and carnal.  Her fingertips dragged down his arms as she nipped lightly at his shoulder.  He groaned and led them to her bed. 

He used his body to guide her to the mattress edge and commanded darkly, “Sit.”

She obliged and watched as he gingerly lifted her injured leg to his thigh and rested her foot there.  He slowly slipped her stocking from her leg, taking great care to be gentle around her knee and her calf.  He took the same amount of time and care with her other leg.  When it was free, she jostled his waistband of his trousers down and he stepped out of them.  He placed a knee on her bed and leaned her backwards.  _Soft, how kind of him.  Subliminal messages, Mister Holmes._   She gasped as he bit her other side and used his free hand to pin her hands above her head.  _Oh, those messages, Mister Holmes._

His bright eyes had gone dark, his placid face had hardened, and his body taut in anticipation.  Her breathing was quick and her muscles jumped under the touch of his free hand.  She shuddered and he felt a sense of accomplishment from it.  She lifted her knees up and growled at him as he reprimanded her, “No.”

In a swift movement, he had removed her knickers and tossed them to the side with his pants and he surveyed over her.  Normal people would feel vulnerable and squirm under the scrutiny – but the both of them were far from normal.  She was challenging him and he knew it.  How far would Sherlock Holmes be willing to go?  _That’s a dumb question_.  He grinned wickedly as he leaned down to kiss her neck and collar bone.  Her breathing hitched as she arched her back off of the soft, cool sheets and made her body flush with his.  He groaned at the contact and could feel the heat radiating from her.  His mind was hazy and he seemed to enjoy it.  His hardened sex teased her opening, eliciting a growl from her in impatience.

“Sherlock,” she snarled in a whisper, “God damn it!”

His name on her lips in such a manner was a God-send.  He entered her and she gasped at the new contact.  _Don’t disappoint, Shannon, I know it’s been a while, girl – but damn._   She wriggled an arm free and latched it the nape of his neck and pulled herself closer to him.  Her breasts began to flatten against his chest and she bit onto his shoulder. No doubt leaving a mark, she soothed it with light kisses as he continued his ministrations.

Her hips rose to meet his with each thrust and he released her other hand to brace them against her bed.  Sighs and groans filled the room as the pair of them worked their way to climax.  He shifted his weight and changed the angle with which he had her and she cried out.

He stopped for a moment, judging whether it was from pain _She was attacked, you ass_ or from pleasure, but the smile on her face gave him his answer.  
Her nails raked across the taut skin of his back and he growled.  _Carnality at its finest, and he’s – well, perfection_.  She could feel pressure in her abdomen and the anticipation was excruciating.  It kept building as his hand now guided her hip into a new alignment then moved to her fold.  She bucked into him and her legs wrapped around his waist quickly; she could feel that she was close.  Her eyes opened and made contact with his, “Sherlock.”

He thrust faster into her sex, hitting the perfect spot to send her reeling over the precipice of orgasm.  Her eyes dilated and her body shook under him.  Her body tensed around his sex and he felt like he was losing himself, so he withdrew and watched as the evidence of his own orgasm spilled into the hollow of her hip and he collapsed on top of her, panting heavily.  After some time, she slipped from her bed to clean herself up some while he lay there with his eyes closed catching his breath.  _This room smells of sex now – but it was our coupling.  It’s far more tolerable._ He felt the bed dip as she straddled across him to get to the open spot.  His hand moved to her thigh and rested there a moment, warming it.

“You got up?” he asked with his eyes still closed.

“For a moment, but I’m here.  You’re welcome to stay if you so desire,” she responded warmly as she touched his busy hand with her fingertips, “I will also not get mad if you choose to return to your own bed.”

He contemplated a moment and got up, ripping her sheet off her bed and wrapping it around his waist as he walked out of her room.  She pulled up the throw at the bottom of her bed with her foot after a few failed attempts and half covered herself as she rolled onto her stomach.  A few moments later, her door opened again and he brought in his coat and scarf and tossed them onto her dresser.

She looked up with sleep-heavy eyes and smirked, “Look at you, all cloak and dagger and domestic.”

“Do shut up,” he scoffed as he crawled back into her bed.

Shannon quickly fell asleep, hands stuffed under her pillow, facing him.  Her soft, quiet breaths were comforting to him and he watched her bare back rise and fall slowly.  _Am I supposed to hold her now?  Does she not want me to do so?  Or is that too far ahead for whatever this is?  I am tired.  She did wear me out._   He fisted his hand behind his head and let his tiredness take hold after he clicked off the light.


	23. Groggy

John woke up later that morning since his shift didn’t start early.  He leisurely walked around the flat in his t-shirt and flannel pajamas as he began to make breakfast.  He set the kettle to boil and walked downstairs to grab the paper, realizing that Sherlock’s effects were not on the banister.  Still recovering from sleep and intrigued, he nabbed the paper off the step and walked back upstairs to his room.

 

_Sherlock:_

_Where’d you get off to this morning?  
It won’t kill you to pick up milk on your way back._

John ate in comfortable silence as he read the paper.  Shannon appeared a little while later, groggy.  “Morning,” she yawned.  She was in a plaid blue robe she bought yesterday with it tied tightly around her waist.  She made her way into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water; walked beside John and picked up a paper he had obviously finished reading.

“I hope he was as much of a gentleman as could be expected of him last night.  He was grumbling as he left to catch up with you,” John chuckled.

Shannon stood behind him and gave a devious pout, “Pretty sure you’d have been proud.  He even ate dinner.”  She took a sip of water.  “Thanks for the paper,” she yawned again, “I’ll bring it back up if I don’t doze off again.”

John turned to face her, “Your hair’s still reddish…  Hey, did you hear Sherlock go downstairs this morning?”

She shrugged, “It’ll wash out.  The day is still young, John Watson.”  She laughed walking out, “It’ll be gone later today.  And yes; it was fairly early.”  _That’s technically not a lie._

John heard the click of her door and resumed reading the paper.  A small article was published talking about the banker going missing that he and Sherlock were investigating.  He set it aside to show him later.  John got up and decided to go for a run to do something constructive before work.  Most likely, Shannon would be already out of the shower.

She placed the glass of water on the stand next to the bed and shed her robe, crawling back to her side of the bed.  Sherlock stirred in his sleep and rolled onto his side, draping an arm over her waist.  His chest would graze against her back as he would breathe out and it lulled her back to sleep instantly.

He could hear birds chirping loudly outside and light was filtering in from the window.  _Not my bed.  Ah yes, Shannon’s bed.  Of course._   He opened his eyes slowly to see Shannon facing away from him, no doubt asleep.  She’d been up since falling asleep the first time.  Her robe was draped over the foot of the bed and she wasn’t under her throw; she was half covered with the sheet.  His arm was draped over her, which surprised him.  He knew he tossed and turned in his sleep, but subconsciously; his body did him proud.  He leaned up on his elbow and surveyed the room.  She had folded his clothes and set them on the dresser and brought water down.  His phone was sitting on the end table, charging and on silent.  _How considerate._   He removed his arm from her side and grabbed the mobile to check for messages.  _Ah, that’s why it’s silent – John._

He chuckled and replaced it back on the stand taking a sip of water.  “Do you mind, you’re being loud,” she groaned into her pillow.

He turned to look at her in confusion, “When did you get up this morning?  I didn’t notice.”

“Around seven,” she rolled back onto her stomach and stretched her arms under her pillow, “That was the idea since you were sleeping.  John was up; I brought a paper down to read – but I fell back asleep.  He’s under the impression you left this morning.”

“I would think so,” he laughed gruffly, “I removed my things from view and left a note on his laptop saying that I was out.”  He liked the morning roughness in her voice.  There was a raspy quality to it and it suited her well.  He picked up the paper and started reading.

She nodded and closed her eyes again, trying to fall back asleep.  Shannon’s breathing began to slow when Sherlock looked at her sideways, “You should get up, it’s almost eighty thirty.”

She smirked in annoyance, “My bed, my rules, my sleep – you can return to the entire rest of the flat if it bothers you that much.”

“It doesn’t,” he stated looking down at her, “It was merely an observation.”

“Sure,” she yawned, opening her eyes to look up at him, “You’ll have to write down in your notes that you only lasted three days before an extreme of clothing – and not even that extreme – was your undoing.”

“Tsk,” he commented, “If you remember correctly, you lunged at me.”

She yawned and turned her head to face the other direction and muttered something under her breath, “…scaredy cat.”

He looked down at her nonchalantly and poked her shoulder, “I don’t recall you feeling that way earlier.”

She hissed at him.  “Excuse you,” as she swatted at him.  He stretched and groaned as he stood up and went to collect his clothes, placing the paper on her loveseat.  She turned back to face him, “Your robe is on the door – I snagged it when I was upstairs.  Mrs. Hudson is still about.”

He nodded and grabbed his robe, shrugging it on and tying the belt.  “I’m going to need to document your bite.  I wasn’t able to do so yesterday.”

“I’ll shower before you do.”  _You two aren’t going to talk about it?  No, you will – just not right now.  That’s not in your nature to get overly sentimental.  Besides, the pair of you acted on supported impulse._ “If you want to shower, I’d suggest you go do so now.  I can make tea in the process if you like.”

“We will talk about this at a later time,” he suggested calmly as he gathered his things and headed upstairs.

When her door shut, she sprawled across her new bed.  _That shit, I didn’t even get to try my bed out on my own first.  Jackass._   She did have to admit, the sex helped relieve nagging tension that had been building in her body.  Upon examination, he didn’t leave any marks either _Though I’m sure he would have out of spite given the chance_.  She took this time to stretch out for a few minutes before throwing her morning clothes on, grabbing her shower caddy and towel, and heading upstairs to shower.  She passed Mrs. Hudson at the landing with a kind ‘Good morning’ and wished her well on her trip.  Shannon even went outside to help her with her bags.

“Shannon, you’re in your bare feet!  Get inside!  This pavement’s cold!”

She laughed, picked up one of her small cases, and carried it to the sidewalk edge.  “I’ll be fine, Mrs. Hudson, thank you.  This isn’t so bad.  Really.  Why, when I was younger; my karate teacher made us go practice barefoot in the snow one winter!”

She gasped in shock, “Shannon, that’s dreadful!  How old were you?”

“Thirteen,” she said thoughtfully, “But that doesn’t matter.  I simply will not let you do this by yourself.  So hush.”

The cab came into view and Shannon helped her with her bags, leaned into the car and said, “I’ll make sure that Baker Street is still standing when you get back.”  She smiled casually and gently closed the door before heading back inside.  In the kitchen, she made some tea for the pair of them and found that John had left some sausages for them.

Sherlock emerged from the shower and went straight to his room.  Taking her cue, she hopped into the shower and scrubbed the last of the wretched perfume from her person.  It was an almost therapeutic process to completely rid herself of that persona.  Her calf was scrubbed gently and the scabbing tore in a few places.  _Damn it.  Good thing you aren’t a doctor_.  Scrubbing the tinted mousse from her hair gave her the most satisfaction.  She watched as the red color swirled at the drain until it was no more.  She dried herself quickly, packed her caddy up, wrapped her towel around her body, and opened the door to be blasted with the cool morning air of the flat.  She went down the stairs carefully to go and get dressed.

“Much better,” Sherlock hollered as she hit the last step.

 _Was that a compliment?  Better yet, was that a sign of verbal affection?  Oh, Shannon Byrns – what_ are _you doing to that man?  And what has he done to you?_   She looked into her suitcase and unpacked some more of her clothes to put away now that she had a dresser.  Deciding on something simple, she grabbed one of her camisoles, a blue t-shirt, and another pair of jeans with her black socks.  Safe was safe.  She heard Sherlock’s phone sound as she ascended the stairs and waltzed into the kitchen.  He was already reading the paper that John had left out for him at the table.  She came back with a plate of sausages and her mug of tea and sat at an empty chair.  He motioned for her to lift up her leg and she followed suit, allowing him to document its progression.

“That was Mycroft,” he stated matter-of-factly.  He prodded gently at the reddened flesh that was healing quickly.

“Great,” she said with her mouth full.  She swallowed and sipped her tea, “Oh, was I supposed to pursue that comment?”

He quirked an eyebrow, “Your work visa will be dropped off sometime this morning.”

She choked in surprise, “Wow.  That was fast.  Wonderful.”

Without missing a beat, he added, “And you have an audition at three this afternoon.  It’s a semi-professional symphony, but I have no doubt that you won’t succeed there.”  There was a flash in her eyes as he glanced in her direction.  “You will be going; Mycroft has already made the arrangements.  If you succeed, you’ll also be starting a private studio.  That should be ample enough income for you to start.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat, leapt from the table, and jumped down the stairs.  A few moments later, scales and etudes filled the quiet of 221B Baker Street.  She moved to sections of pieces, he surmised, that were more difficult; prioritizing her review.

He nodded in approval and kept reading his paper when his phone sounded again.  It was the banker’s wife – she had emailed him the ransom note.  It came as an email; lucky enough, he could do his best to take a stab at tracing it.  He had work to do.  Booting up his laptop, he began to dissect the email carefully.  This wasn’t just some rag-tag group of idiots: this was a single man.  The modus operandi seemed to ring a bell – who was that man?  _Think, Sherlock – think…who was it?  Oh yes, Ricoletti, Peter.  He was one of Interpol’s most wanted.  How exciting.  This case went from bland to fab in seconds.  Now, to find him._   Sherlock grabbed his jacket and coat and exited Baker Street.  He had to send out his sniffer dogs.  The homeless network would do just fine.

Shannon drilled with agonizing patience the difficult passages of three pieces she would offer to the panel.  Most likely, they would as her to play the one everyone recognized, the Haydn Concerto, simply because an accompanist, _If there is one_ would have played it already.  Her more modern piece, however, was hell for both soloist and pianist – it showed off her diversity as a musician because it had her switch horns midway through _SHIT.  YOU DON’T HAVE YOUR FLUGEL HERE.  Great.  Way to go._

 

_Dave:_

_Okay, I know, I know – I need a favor._  
 _Can you beg any of your trumpet players for a Flugelhorn?_  
 _I apparently have an audition today._

She waited anxiously for a reply as she slowly played the runs in another piece, gradually picking up the pace with each correct pass through until she was playing faster than tempo.  After she had brushed her nerves aside, she put her trumpet down on its stand and started to pace around.  Her phone sounded loudly and she nearly tripped over herself to get to it.

 

_Shannon:_

_Yeah, I can manage that._  
 _Next time we’re out, you’re picking up the bar tab._  
 _Come pick it up whenever._

_YES.  Thank you, God, for small favors.  I haven’t played in – oh…that’s right.  I should feel sad._   Shannon wrestled with her inner demons while waves of guilt and pain flooded her mind.  She grabbed her keys, wallet, mp3 player, and phone to go back to UWL to pick up the horn.  _I’m sorry, Matt.  Please, let me be mad at you right now – let me do this my way._   She entered the station and grabbed the line she needed to embark back to western London.  No one was following her presently; that was a relief.  She had texted Dave to let him know she was on her way.  Her mind finally started to play catch-up with everything that had happened so far this week.  All the information and experiences kept pushing the boundaries of her brain.  She put her headphones in and shuffled through her playlists and let the music do its job: make sense of her life.

Dave’s student met with her in one of the lobbies holding the bulky case with apprehension.  She shook his hand and asked that they go to a practice room so she could hear him play it.  He obliged and found an open room, opened the case, and started to play.  It was an older horn with a gorgeous rose brass bell.

“You, sir, have impeccable taste.  I can see why you love her,” she smiled softly.

“Her?” he asked loudly taking the instrument from his lips.  “Why do you say her?”

She pointed to his face and his hands, “Look at how you’re holding her.  You’re so careful and commanding of what you want from her.  You handle her like a queen and she, in turn, makes you sound like a god.”  The student was speechless.  “You know what I’m talking about.”

He nodded, “I found her at a garage sale when I was in sixth-year.  I’ve sold everything else and bought new, except her.”

“I understand,” she replied.  “My baby is at home.  He’s a 1921 Conn Conqueror cornet.  He’s so old and reliable and gorgeous.  He lets me tell so many stories when I use him.  And my flugel…oh God, I wish I could let you hear him.  My B-flat, however, she’s a temperamental bitch.”

The student smiled and wiped his mouthpiece out and handed the horn to her, “She’s a little pitchier than normal when you go below E, but the slides all work nicely and you can compensate.  Make sure you warm her up first.”

 _This,_ she thought with a glowing smile, _This is what makes musicians such wonderful people.  You just know.  The pretentious ones can fuck themselves – but the musician that loves the craft for what it is would do anything to further it…they are worth everything._   She blew warm air through the horn and played around its range as soft, warm tones filled the small space.

“You’re almost as good as me,” the kid laughed, “Though, I’d like a lesson with you as compensation.  Is it a trade?”

“Most undoubtedly,” she offered him her hand.  They shook and she put the horn back in its case.  “I can’t today, obviously, but get my number off of Dave and we’ll be in touch.  I can’t thank you enough for taking a chance on me.”

He shrugged, “Sometimes, you just have to do that for people.”

Tears dared to form and she cleared her throat.  “You’re a good kid.  You’ll get your lesson, I promise.”

The two parted ways and she headed back to Baker Street to change into dress blacks.  _Oh.  I don’t have those either.  More shopping, I suppose.  No, I can make this work._   She mimed the difficult passages of her tunes on her thumb as her breathing mimicked the various stages of the piece.  Her nerves had settled.  She was ready; there was no sense agonizing over the imperfections that she wouldn’t be able to control.  When she got back, she’d grab her scores and run to make copies; then change into something a tad more presentable.

John was walking back to Baker Street for lunch since it was nice out and opened the front door to see Shannon throwing clothes out into the hallway.  He should be prepared for whatever carnage was going on in there: he was a war veteran and Christ, he lived with Sherlock long enough.  He peeked his head round to take a look inside.  She was in her dark jeans and a camisole frantically tossing shirts this way and that.

“JOHN!” she exclaimed, causing him to jump.  “WHAT COLOR DO I PICK!?”

He carefully evaluated his options between white and black long-sleeved shirts and furrowed a brow.  “Th – the, er,” he cleared his throat, “The black one?”

She nodded and slipped it over her head, rolled the sleeves up, smoothed out the wrinkles and grabbed the vest she wore yesterday, shouldering her way into it.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting dressed, Watson,” she scolded.  _Duh._

“No, I mean, why are you freaking out?”

She threw her hands up and started pacing about, “I asked Sherlock to have his brother get me a working visa since I don’t know how long I’m going to be here and I can’t keep spending money.  He did – with the provision that I have an audition today!  My chops are still sore, but I think the audition will be fine.  BUT THE PRESENTATION!  I mean, look at me!  What if it’s not a blind panel?  I’ll get written off in an instant.”

He heaved a sigh and did his very John thing to do: bring balance to the force.  “Look, you’ll do fine.  I know it’s been some time from playing – but you’ve got this.”

“Of course I do,” she scoffed.  “I’m a trumpet player.  I’m better than everyone else.”  John looked at her put out.  “Oh, God, John – that was a trumpet player joke!  Look, what’s the international trumpet player handshake?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know.”

She held out her hand, took his and shook it.  “Hi, I’m so-and-so, and I’m better than you.  John, I wasn’t being serious, I swear!  But, thank you for saying that.  It means a lot.  I used to love playing, you know.  A lot.”

“I’m sure,” he responded, sitting beside her on the loveseat.  “If I’ve learned anything from living with Sherlock, and God there are things I wish I hadn’t learned, there are certain things that you being to appreciate as you move forward in life.  You can’t always let the past drag you with it – it will haunt you, sure.  But you must keep going.  Now, I want you to do nothing more than what you’re capable of.  I heard you’re pretty good.”

She stared at him confused, “He did not say that.”

He bobbed his head back and forth in contemplation, “Not exactly, no; but it’s all in the subtext of Sherlock-ese.  On another note, do you like your room?”

“Very much, yes, thank you.  I assume I have you to thank in part?”

“A little,” he chortled, “I may have verbally kicked him in the pants to be productive, letting it slip that if he was bored enough he could go get you some furniture.  He’s clearly outdone himself.  I said a bed and a dresser.”

“Well thank you, John,” she politely kissed his cheek.  There was then a knock at the door.  She froze momentarily and heaved a sigh, moving to see who was there.  She returned to slip on her heels and grab her things.  “And so it goes.”

 

_John:_

_New lead in banker case.  
Come to forwarded address if convenient._

_-SH_

 

_Sherlock:_

_I’m still technically working, so no._

_John:_

_No you’re not._  
 _This is your lunch._  
 _You’re at Baker Street._

_-SH_

_Sherlock:_

_No.  I have to grab lunch and go back to work._  
 _I have a few hours yet, if you could wait._

_John:_

_That might be wise.  I’ll need my blogger._

_-SH_

 

John sighed as he got up, went into the hall to grab her clothes and toss them back into her room, made his way to the kitchen and grabbed a few sausages he had stashed in the fridge.  _He can be such a prat._   He ate in the quiet and saw that Sherlock had been rummaging about on her laptop again.  His scrawl was all over one of the notepads with arrows pointing this way and that.  He as trying to make sense of whatever those files and sounds could possibly do.  Most of the words were in regard to chemicals of the body and those that the brain releases.  _What are you up to?_   He turned around and went back to work, enjoying the abnormally sunny day that London doesn’t get all too often.


	24. The Howler

Shannon sat outside in the hall as player after player came and went.  When it was her turn, she silently walked into the room and set herself up.

There was a panel of five sitting at a table fifteen of so feet ahead of her.  The gentleman second from the right, more than likely the conductor, spoke first.  “Thank you for coming to audition, please tell us your name and a brief background.”

“Thank you for the opportunity.  My name is Shannon Byrns, I am twenty-five, I have been playing for fifteen years…” and she went into a brief synopsis of her studying at university with and with whom she studied privately, ending with her Bachelors of Music degree.  She rattled off ensembles that she’d played in throughout her career as well as pieces she’d been featured in.

“What will you be playing for us?” the woman to his left asked, already uninterested.

Shannon grabbed the stack of copied scores from the bag and walked to the table, “If you’ll permit me, I have the following pieces prepared.  You may pick whatever you desire.”  She handed out four packets.  “I’d like to apologize, I only made four sets – I wasn’t aware I had an audition today until ten thirty this morning.”

The elder gentleman on the end looked confused, “You can’t be serious.”

“Unfortunately, sir, I am.  My opinion is that it’s been done out of spite – but I’m hoping to prove that person…and now all of you, that I’m the best candidate for this chair,” she replied with a dignified confidence.

The gentleman at the other end smiled as he flipped through her pages of music, “The Haydn?  Lovely.  But you don’t have an E-flat?”

“No, sir,” she replied, “My horn is sitting in Boston right now.  Odd circumstances and such; I wasn’t aware I’d be auditioning here.  This is more or less my vacation.”

He nodded solemnly, “Play the third movement.”

She walked back to her horn and pushed warm air through her trumpet.  Her valves moved effortlessly under her fingers.  She stood beside her stand and let the first note sound in the room.  _As far as first notes go, girl, Dayum.  Da-yum.  That was bitchin’._   She played from memory and graciously breezed through the few trouble spots that might have been a problem.

“Thank you,” interrupted the man in the center.  The panel took some notes down and looked through her music.

The elder man on the right end had to have been a trumpet player – he was playing along on his fingers, she saw it.  He flipped to another sheet.  “Tell me about this Peaslee concerto.  I’ve not heard it.”

She rubbed her bottom lip and tucked her trumpet under her arm.  “It’s stunning,” she started, “It pushes you as a player to focus on not just the notes, which I might add is a chore.  But – there’s an aura it gives off; an electricity.  The soloist trades off between trumpet and Flugel, contrasting the bright and the dark tones that this particular brass can offer.  It stirs you; at least I hope it does – or I’m going to look mighty foolish.”

The panel thumbed through the score.  The man who had yet to speak looked up and frowned, “If you’d please, start at the last trumpet section and then get into the Flugel transition, stop after eight bars, and then jump to the last rehearsal mark and play to the end.”

“Of course,” she replied.  She marked quick notes on her music and began.  She felt that the trumpet portion of this piece was weak – it was awkward to just start there; however, her transition into the Flugel section was fluid and like dark velvet.  She hopped to the end and poured her pain into that horn and watched as stunning color filled her vision and flooded into the room.  The Flugel had served her well.  Too bad it wasn’t for sale.  She’d buy it in a heartbeat.  The panel made a few more notes and then motioned for her to play the sightreading piece before her.

She studied it for a moment and looked up at the panel, “I can’t honestly play this.”

The conductor frowned, “Certainly, you can, my dear; considering what you just played.”

She shook her head, “Not because I can’t.  I have played it before.  If you wish to have me truly demonstrate my sightreading ability, then give me something else; please.”

The woman sifted through her stack of music and handed her a page of music at random.  It was not in the clef trumpet was in, but she could read it easily enough.  Shannon looked it over, found her tempo and played through it with a few flubs here and there.  Shannon finished and walked the selection back to the judges for review.

“Thank you, all, for your time and patience – I’ve sat through auditions as a panel judge before, so I fully appreciate how you’ve spent your day.  Thank you again.”

The elder man stood up, “Why did you audition if you are on vacation?”

“I was,” she replied honestly as she packed up her things, “But my work visa came through and now I’ll be staying here for a while.  It gives me something to work on.”  She shouldered her bag and picked up the case, approaching the table, shook each of their hands, and made her way out.

Another woman, a little older than she, was waiting to go in.  Shannon smiled politely and sat down to readjust her bag and case.  “Enjoy yourself in there, that’s the best way to play.”

The woman rolled her eyes and scoffed, “You really weren’t that good.”

Shannon’s face hardened, “No, I don’t suppose I was.  But I’m better than you.  By miles.”  The woman’s reaction was perfect and Shannon walked out to find Mycroft’s car waiting.  “Back to Baker Street, if you’d please.”

Shannon got back to the flat to find it empty; John most likely was still at the clinic and Sherlock had to be out and about at work.  After dropping the instruments off in her room and noticing her clothes were tossed into the middle of her floor, she made her way into the sitting room.  With her laptop snatched up and a quick glance at Sherlock’s chicken scratch notes, she made her way to the couch and lay down.  Her laptop was set to balance on her stomach and she plugged in her headphones.  She found herself anxious at what lie unknown before her.  Should she really dare and listen without the _dynamic duo_ there to prepare for the worst?

She heaved a sigh, clicked the bottom most track, pressed play and closed her eyes.  Her hands moved to cradle the back of her head and she crossed her ankles.  Soon enough, soft static noise filled her head; it grew louder and electronic waves panned from left to right.  She could see nothing but grey and odd shapes in her mind.  Her breathing slowed and she drew herself into a meditative state.  There were two hours of sound to get through.  So far, she felt no different, but she was focusing on it.  It was time to let go and take the full plunge.  _All or nothing, Matt._

 

John returned home to hear the silence and was mid-text to the detective when he stumbled upon Shannon listening to music.  He squinted to see exactly what she was listening to and concern took over him.

 

_Sherlock:_

_Are you still at the address?_   
_There are a few_   
  
_Get to Baker Street now._   
_She’s listening._

He made movement to go and try to disturb her when his phone sounded.

 

_John:_

_Don’t interrupt her._   
_We don’t fully know what this will do._   
_Come to the address._   
_I’m sure she will be fine._

_-SH_

Something in his gut told him that he should be worried about her.  One would think that she was dead if not for the slight movement of her laptop on her stomach.  John scribbled a quick note and left it on the coffee table.  _Sherlock found a lead.  Call if you need me home.  –John_

He peered back at her motionless form as he left.  He left quietly and went to go and find the consulting detective. 

 

The pair of them were nearly to Baker Street, fed up with the little evidence they were able to acquire after following the newest lead.  Tomorrow, however, was another day.  John, the entire way back to their flat, chided and scolded him for having decided it was best to leave her on her own.

“Honestly, Sherlock, what if something were to happen to her?  You said yourself that you aren’t entirely sure what the outcomes would be!  She could be left a vegetable!”

“I think you’ve watched far too much television,” Sherlock huffed, “She knows the risks just as well as I with what could happen.  If she felt that it was intelligent enough for her to do something on her own, we have to respect that.”

John looked cross, “Oh, sure – because you don’t have dark days either.”

Sherlock stopped as he unlocked the door and looked back to John, “Dark days – it makes sense…”

They walked up the stairs and looked at the state of the flat.  Shannon’s laptop was on its side between the couch and coffee table, pillows were everywhere, papers strewn about; furniture overturned: it looked like the place had been ransacked.

“Oh my God,” John breathed, “Sherlock…look at this place.  Shannon?”  He spun in a small circle and bolted downstairs, “Shannon!”  He called loudly as he threw her door open.  He came back upstairs and pulled his mobile from his pocket and called her.  No answer – but her phone rang loudly on the floor in front of the couch.

Sherlock turned around and looked into the kitchen and found more papers strewn about.  There was a subtle, near discernible sound coming from that direction.  He followed it and looked to the floor, seeing Shannon’s arm peeking out from under some papers.  She was in a heap under debris with silent tears streaming down her face.  He deftly moved things out of the way and picked her up.

“John,” his voice boomed through the hallway as he carried her to his room.  It was only logical because his bed was closer than the couch.  John clicked at his heels to the immaculately clean room and rushed to check on her.  She had some fresh bruising starting on her arms and hands, as well as some marks near her forehead.

Sherlock looked at her hands and saw no signs of defensive wounds, but the pattern that was emerging on her face looked self-inflicted.  John went to his room to fetch a pack of smelling salts; when he returned, Sherlock was moving some of his furniture out of the way.  “When you open that and she starts coming round, back away at first.  Do you understand me?”

“Sherlock, don’t you dare use that tone!  This is Shannon we’re talking about!” he scolded.

His face remained stern, “And she’s the one that tore the apartment to shreds.”

Realization swept across John’s face and nodded somberly.  With the small capsule cracked, Shannon began to awaken and John backed away slowly just so that he was out of reach.  She blinked a few times and fresh tears began to fall.  The young woman immediately grabbed at her head in anguish.

“Shannon, are you okay?” John asked, his voice was flooded with worry.

She looked up at him.  Sherlock realized this form before them may appear to be Shannon, but she wasn’t there.  Some other creature was sitting there in pain and agony.  Shannon wasn’t looking at John; her eyes were empty.  _This is a shell._ Then the howling came.

It wasn’t quite a scream, nor was it a yell; her voice was cracking under the stress of the bellowing and cries.  _Yes, this is howling – primal and raw_ he thought.  The hollow, chilling howls filled Baker Street.  You would have thought someone was being put to death.  Sherlock turned to some of his chemicals and started quickly making a concoction, throwing it over the Bunsen burner that was on the counter in the kitchen to boil.

John moved to hold Shannon down as she flailed about. She was in pain and far beyond herself that he wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about it except wait it out.  Even in the war, he had never heard anything so soul-razing and gut-wrenching.  Shannon was possessed by her pain.

Sherlock returned quickly and held small tube close to her face allowing the vapors to be breathed in.  She quickly calmed and drifted to unconsciousness.

The pair exchanged nervous glances, “Sherlock, if this is what those files do to her – perhaps it’s best that she never know?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock breathed.  _But can she endure another such set of tantrums?  Could Baker Street endure such again?  Her frenzy was worse than his._   “She’ll wake and we’ll discuss this.”

“Everything’s not always that simple!  You two don’t understand that you can’t always just talk things out and hope for the best.  There’s more to living than that,” John whispered harshly.  He could feel his temper rising.  “I don’t care that Mycroft brought her here, I don’t care if she goes out with us on your deduction walks; I don’t care about any of that!  But I do care about her safety and wellbeing!   She was brought here so that his resources and your mind could protect her!  For whatever reason, we all get along alright and she’s one of us now.  I know you don’t give a damn because this is just another puzzle to you, but please try!”

Sherlock pressed his lips into a tight frown, “I think I should sleep with her tonight.”

 _What.  No.  Seriously.  What._   His mouth hung agape, “She’s unconscious!  Now’s the time you feel like having a shag?!  WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG WITH YOU!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” he commented unfazed.  “She seems to sleep more soundly when someone else is around, using the evidence from Matt’s testimony the other day.  She had said in passing she slept soundly.  With that, and knowing that she didn’t get much sleep yesterday and that she should be monitored in the event that her episode isn’t fully over, I am going to sleep here with her.  She needs to be observed and have any and all reactions noted for further investigative purposes.”  John sat there stunned.  “Honestly, and you say that I don’t have any couth; shame on you, John.”

Sherlock left his room momentarily and returned with her laptop and his notes.  He sat down on the floor beside the bed and used the side of the mattress as a chair back.  John still stood there in his astonishment for a few moments longer.

“John, if you keep staring like that, your mind might break into pieces,” Sherlock stated complacently.

He nodded, still in a state of shock, and quietly left Sherlock’s bedroom to start making dinner for the group of them.  _Sherlock and a woman…of course not.  Adler was something new – he admired the power she was able to wield as a_ nobody _to those of importance.  Shannon is altogether a different beast.  I know that he admires in her in certain aspects.  She’s knowledgeable of subjects that he isn’t and she can hold her own against him._

He threw the vegetables and chicken in the pot and added some stock and rice.  His mind kept racing beyond his control.

_She’s so much like him, you could think they were almost a reflection of each other; and yet, I find that their differences even in temperament are astounding.  How many days has she been here now?  Five?  No, six days.  Shannon has only been here six days and already she’s comfortable in my life.  And Sherlock’s._

He stirred the pot in silence and frowned.  John then began cutting up some tomatoes and mushrooms for a salad.

_I can’t really explain it.  She just fits.  I feel as if I’ve known her my whole life and that’s why I trust her.  It’s nice, though, that she wrangles him a bit.  I’m able to go to work and not get fifty texts because he’s bored.  She shows her humanity a little more than he does – but I’d guess that’s because of all the crap that she’s gone through for the past ten years.  That poor woman – her mind must be on fire.  I can’t imagine…and her brother?  That’s it.  She’s the pair of us.  She’s the soldier and the brain…all in one.  She’s become the shade of grey that connects us gentlemen together._

He made Shannon a plate and took it to where she was resting.  John placed it on top of his friend’s drawer-top and looked down at him as he was leaving.  “Sherlock, I – I know what I was accusing you of and…that was unacceptable.  My apologies.  But, you know, she compliments and contrasts the both of us…and I suppose I’ve become fond of her in her short stay so far.  I feel an innate need to protect her.  And you should, too.  You probably don’t, but for sentiment’s sake you should.  With that out of the way,” he cleared his throat, “are you going to eat?”

“Thank you, no,” he replied quickly as he scanned through other files on her computer, “Just some tea and a new pen.”  John nodded in acknowledgement and left to go and make tea.  He returned a short time later and made his way of straightening up their home.

Shannon still lay peacefully quiet on his bed with slow, even breaths.  It was rhythmic and nearly precise in tempo.  He noted it without a second thought and kept working diligently to find more clues that could bring the shadows to light.  With a quick look to his watch _6:07 in the evening_ and stated looking at more of her notes regarding hunches, evidence, and connections regarding her brother’s death.  He put in her headphones and listened to a little of each of the other 24 tracks to see if there was any indication as to their subject matter.  His mind raced with the formulas for every chemical the brain could release and enact in the body; then categorizing them internally by their reaction and function.  He mildly noticed John come and go to check on Shannon.

He closed his eyes and pressed his fingertips to his lips.  The different combinations could all enact different reactions.  Those of which that could cause a manic state were fewer… _My hair…she’s touching my hair._   He looked again to his watch _9:36 in the evening_.

“You destroyed the flat,” he commented without turning around.  Her fingers were mildly combing through what hair she could reach; _I don’t seem to mind._

“Hello, dear, my day was awful, thanks for asking,” she groaned in a whisper.  “Why am I in your room?”

“I found you unconscious under some furniture and my papers in the kitchen,” he replied.  “You had been crying.  Graciously, you didn’t toss the microscope.

“My throat hurts,” she stated quietly, “It feels like I pulled something.”  She was still playing with his hair as she lifted her other hand to her throat and rubbed it gingerly.  “Definitely did something.”

He sat there and continued to look over files.  She opened her eyes lazily and took a long draw of air, “What smells funny?”

Sherlock continued to do internet searches as he answered her.  “Methoxypropane.  Also known as methyl propyl ether: highly flammable you see – it’s got a boiling point of 38 degrees C.  I always keep some about as a precaution.”

“English?”

“A variation of a potent sleeping gas.  You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.  Why did you gas me?  Do I want to know?”  Her voice was raspy and soft.  She rolled onto her side and looked down over his shoulder at her computer.  She saw his cup of tea and reached down to claim it, sipping some and then replacing it.  She paused in touching his hair as she waited for a response.

He stood up swiftly and set her laptop down on the corner of the bed.  “You were out of sorts.  John had to restrain you after you came round.  Madness is putting it delicately.  And you wouldn’t stop screaming.”

“Ah,” she whispered, “That explains the voice then.  I’m sorry if I hurt either of you.  I expect that you noticed the camera rolling on the fireplace?”

He looked down at her in silence.  “You didn’t?  Why not?  It had been running.  You didn’t see it?”

“John forced me to be preoccupied.”

“That’s not like you, Sherlock,” she retorted.  She swung her legs off the bed and saw the dinner plate.  With a none-to-delicate heave to her feet, she walked over, grabbed the plate, and started to eat her now cold dinner. 

Shannon inhaled her food and returned her plate to the kitchen.  John was sitting in his chair when she put her hands on his shoulders.  He jumped with a start and spun around on his heels flinging his paper aside.  “Shannon!” he gasped.  “You okay?”

“I think so, yeah,” she rasped, “I’m sorry about earlier.  Sherlock said you had to restrain me.”

“Your voice,” he lamented, “I’ll see what I can do about that.  You weren’t yourself; you were hollow.  Don’t worry about it.”

She bit her lip and disappointment washed over her, “I should have worried about it.  And I will for the rest of the tracks.  I’ll only do a listen when either of you are here.  God knows what could have happened.  I’m sorry, John.  You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

John’s face softened and he snatched her up in a warm hug.  His arms wrapped around her back and she did the same in kind.  “Shannon, just be a little smarter about all of this, yeah?”

The sincerity and fondness in his voice almost brought her to tears.  Matt used to talk to her like that and it always struck her deeply.  She buried her face in his shoulder, “I’m sorry.”  She kept whispering those words over and over as best she could.  When they separated, she looked round the lounge and kitchen to see John’s handiwork.  “Thank you for cleaning all this up – and for dinner.  I’ll pay you back.  I promise.”

John nodded with a small smile and turned her head to look at the bruising on her face.  “You did a number on yourself.  I don’t think that you broke anything; but we’re going to have to take some precautions next time you are going to have a listen.”

“Of course,” she answered with a yawn.  She pointed to the recorder, “I made sure I got it on tape. Ought to be interesting.”  Shannon peered down at her arms to take note of their state: bruising and red marks with mild scratches graced her skin.  They would disappear eventually.

Sherlock emerged, dumped his tea and got himself a glass of water.  He smiled to himself because of John’s tidiness.  All of his work was reorganized and back in its rightful place.  _Good on John to be so quick about it._   “You’ll be sleeping with me, Shannon.  You need to be observed and monitored in the event that you have another episode.”

She turned slowly and looked toward the sound of his voice with lidded eyes, “But of course.”  Her voice barely audible and her features exhausted, she dragged herself towards the stairs.  “I’m changing first, thank you.”

The detective twiddled with a pen he picked up off the table and looked to his friend.  “She recorded her endeavors.”

“Thank _God_ for that,” John voiced.  “Whatever would we do without her documentation?”

“You’re cross,” he observed.  “Why?”

“Do you seriously try to be a complete git all the time?” he walked away, bristled, and slammed the door to his room.

Shannon heard the exchange and came upstairs into the kitchen.  “It will pass, Sherlock.  He’s cross because he feels that you should be more concerned with my welfare and not with that of the evidence.”

“Obviously I’m concerned if I have to watch over you through the night?  The evidence gives insight to the state of your mind post listen and can be beneficial to cracking the case,” he stated as if reciting a long known fact.

Shannon shrugged and made her way to his room, “I understand, Sherlock.  But you must understand where John is coming from also.  His concern for you; and now me, is out of care.  He cares for our wellbeing.  He’s being John.  With that, I’m going to bed.  I’m still tired, I gather, from whatever you gave me.”

“Methoxypropane,” he reminded.  “It is possible.  I wasn’t totally accurate with dosage.  Close enough, however, to get you to sleep.”

“You know, Sherlock, in the past six days I’ve been attacked, hypnotized twice, pinned to the floor; I’ve interrogated a suspect three times, had an audition, and now this…  Please tell me that most weeks aren’t this boring for you,” she chuckled as she crawled over to her side of the bed.  “I apologize now,” she whispered as her eyes closed.

“Why are you apologizing?  Have you done something that I missed?” he said as he unbuttoned his shirt.

She sighed in comfort while sprawling, “I’m probably going to cuddle.  So, sorry.  I do that in my sleep.”  His face contorted.  “And I know you’re making a face, so stop it.  You didn’t seem to mind doing so this morning.  I do recall having your arm draped across me, do I not?  Stop being a child.”

Sherlock pulled up his pajama bottoms in a huff, “You’re here for observation.”

“Fine,” she yawned.  “I was just being nice and giving you a heads up into my behaviour, ass.”

He got into his side of his bed, switched off the light, and stared at the ceiling deep in thought.  Tomorrow he would have to look at the footage from her listening session and evaluate the evidence.  He fisted his right hand behind his head.  _Should she continue such sessions if this is the result? Does she remember anything new?_   Thousands of thoughts and processes were flashing across his mind in a matter of seconds.  _Was it minutes?  What time is it now?_

He was ripped from his thoughts because he felt something move against him.  _Minutes.  You’ve been in your head for minutes._   There was Shannon, sound asleep and snoring softly with her head against his bare chest and an arm draped across his body.  The action left him in a profound state of confusion and wonder.  The constant buzzing in his mind quieted for a moment; yet, where one would think that he should be terrified of the calm he discovered a sense of distilled peace.  It was an odd sensation to say the least; _and not one that I feel often.  This stillness unnerves me and yet, I know that it is welcome._  
It should be perplexing and unwanted.  _In truth, I can’t find reason to mind.  She’s asleep.  She needs to sleep.  I should sleep.  Her breathing is rhythmic and precise.  It’s almost soothing, I would say.  I find that I am growing tired._

“I don’t understand,” he thought aloud.  “I shouldn’t feel this tired.”

She had heaved a heavy sigh before replying, “It’s an effect I have.  Don’t ask me why.  Now shut up and go to sleep.  I’ll try not to destroy the universe while I’m unconscious.”

He lay there silent for a few moments.  It was peculiar, no doubt, that circumstances had taken the turn that they did.  Shannon had been there just shy of a week.  She was unnerving and incorrigible to say the least.  She wasn’t as intelligent as he was – but that was a lie.  She was knowledgeable about subject matter he didn’t concern himself with; like literature and astronomy.  Her musical prowess far surpassed his own.  She was dangerous, and that was being modest: she was an avid fighter and ridiculously cunning.  She was strong and incredibly tenacious while having the innate capability to be far more attached to humanity than he was.

She was a problem, a puzzle; an extreme of nature.  She understood what it meant to have a quick succession of thoughts flash before her eyes and come to conclusions with inane accuracy.  Here he was, lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, and this obnoxious woman had her head atop his chest.  What was she thinking?  The nerve.  The gall.  Her hair fell across the softened features of her face to give her an almost peaceful appearance.  But he knew better.  He knew what was inside that mind.  And body, for that matter.

He grumbled to himself as he listened to his inner voice dissect his situation.  He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, bringing his left hand to rest on his stomach above her arm. 

“You are obnoxious,” he sighed as his body relaxed to allow sleep to take hold.

She whispered with sassiness, “Shut up, Holmes; stop reminding me.”  _What a wonderful first week._

He smiled faintly while his limbs grew heavy like lead.  He could hear her soft snoring when his breathing evened out.  He gave into the calm and plunged into sleep.  Tomorrow was another day and as far as he was concerned, tonight wasn’t so bad.  _Not so bad for a first week._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and Gentlemen, so ends part one of this series.
> 
> So, what do you think?
> 
> And if you'd like, I can post a link of the music choices in a comment so you guys can hear them.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading until the end.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: Part two of the series is now posted. You can continue with Shannon on her adventure if you so desire!


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